


Devil's Snare

by sunshinesundae



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Banter, Boss/Employee Relationship, Business Trip, F/M, HP: EWE, Post-Hogwarts, Romance, Slow Burn, Snark, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-29 01:09:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 30,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8469943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshinesundae/pseuds/sunshinesundae
Summary: Hermione wants a new job. Will boss Malfoy let her go? "Tell me, Granger, do you often imagine me in bed?" "If you mean death bed," she said sweetly. "Then every day."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Dramione work romance fic, set post-Hogwarts and ignoring the epilogue entirely. It's complete, around 30,000 words and 11 chapters in total, so I'll be uploading it as quickly as possible. Please do drop me a review to let me know if you enjoy it!

It was 5.52 on a Tuesday morning and Hermione Granger hadn't slept a wink.

Oh, she'd tried, of course. Desperately, and with all of the tricks she could remember without resorting to a potion—deep breathing, slow stretching, reciting _Hogwarts: A History_ , reciting _Hogwarts: A History_ backwards, even the clichéd counting sheep. But nothing had worked, and as the first cracks of daylight crept in under her curtains, she had eventually accepted that it was not going to happen and she might as well get up.

And now here she was, slumped at her kitchen table in her pyjamas and dressing gown, clutching her second mug of black coffee to her chest like a lifebuoy. She had, she realised, been consuming a lot of caffeine lately. Perhaps that was why she couldn't sleep.

Her gaze rested on the innocuous cream envelope sat on the table before her.

Or maybe caffeine wasn't the problem.

The letter had been delivered by owl last night. Hermione had been home waiting for it; in fact, she'd been waiting for it all weekend. She'd been told after her interview on Friday afternoon that the Ministry would be in touch with their decision shortly.

Except they hadn't. Oh, they'd gotten in touch all right, but not with a decision. The Ministry of Magic had always had a tendency to prevaricate and now, nearly eleven years after the end of the Second Wizarding War, they were no different.

Hermione wasn't even sure why she wanted to work for them again.

But she did. _Badly_. If only to escape Draco Malfoy, CEO of Malfoy Incorporated and Hermione's current boss.

It wasn't that Malfoy was a _bad_ boss. He was just… demanding.

While his father had been sentenced to life in Azkaban, Draco had, as a minor during the war, escaped any sort of serious repercussions for his actions. A lot had come out during the trial about the pressure he'd been under that final year at Hogwarts, and eventually, even Ron had had to admit he felt bad for the notorious Slytherin. Malfoy himself had, along with his mother, vanished abroad for a very long time, reappearing only a few years ago as the owner of a successful international investment bank.

Hermione had been working in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures when Draco had returned to London. She had taken an apprenticeship there not long after graduating Hogwarts with starry-eyed dreams of making a real difference to misunderstood and mistreated magical creatures. Her dreams had taken a hit, however, when she was dumped straight in the Office of Misinformation, deceiving and obliviating Muggles on a daily basis and never managing to get herself promoted much beyond entry level.

Malfoy had approached her soon after his return. To her surprise, he was no longer the petty, vindictive boy she remembered from Hogwarts. Arrogant, yes, but she could cope with that. He had asked her to head up his Muggle Relations office, and, after much deliberation (and numerous arguments with various Weasleys), she had accepted. And that was that.

Or so she thought.

Malfoy had developed a nasty habit of hexing the Muggles that annoyed him, and with many Muggle clients and investors, this happened on a tediously regular basis. Hermione had put her skills with memory charms to good use and taken to accompanying him to every meeting he attended to prevent him from casting anything too cruel. Slowly, her job had morphed into something resembling Malfoy's personal assistant—not a job for the faint-hearted.

He was a needy man. Charismatic and intelligent, yes, with an extraordinary head for business, but utterly incompetent when it came to everyday matters. Hermione was unsure how he managed to get through the day unscathed. He paid her very well, but she felt she'd sold her soul in return. She had no life outside the office, she struggled to find the time to meet with her friends, and she hadn't had a date in months.

Her job took up almost every waking moment, much of which she spent around Malfoy. Merlin, she even dreamt about him! A rather unsettling turn of events, considering Draco was not, in fact, an unattractive wizard.

It was all, quite frankly, beginning to get to her.

Which is why she was currently sat at her kitchen table, over an hour before her alarm was due to go off, agonising over the crumpled letter before her.

She hadn't told Malfoy she was looking for another job. She knew exactly how he'd react. He depended on her. She enjoyed her job—she did!—she just needed a fresh challenge, and she wasn't sure he'd understand. She had hoped she'd simply be able to get a new job and hand in her two weeks' notice. No arguments. No negotiations. Hopefully, no bad feelings between them.

But she was Hermione Granger, and her life was never that simple. The letter from the Ministry Muggle Liaison Office said the prestigious position Hermione had interviewed for was tied between two candidates.

The proposed deciding factor? They wanted a letter of recommendation from her current employer.

That would be Draco.

Hermione dropped her head to the table with a groan.

* * *

Ever practical, even when exhausted and a little cranky, Hermione decided not to waste her sleepless night and took the Floo into work earlier than usual.

Malfoy's office was dark, she saw as she passed on the way to her own office. Not unusual. Although the man kept odd working hours—evidenced by the many times he'd stuck his head through her fireplace late at night, demanding her opinion on one thing or another—early mornings were never his thing.

Hermione's office was just down the hall from Malfoy's. She was sure he'd positioned her so close so she could be at his immediate beck and call, but it was an airy, south-facing office, with floor-to-ceiling windows and a beautiful view of Muggle London, so she didn't mind too much. She hung her robes up as she entered, then threw herself into her morning routine.

It wasn't too long before other employees began arriving. She could hear them walking up and down the hallways, greeting each other. A few poked their head round her door to say hi or to offer her a coffee, which she gladly accepted. (What? It would only be her fourth). The familiar low thrum of activity was soothing, and, slouched in her chair, sipping from her favourite cat-lady mug, Hermione could feel herself relaxing just a little bit.

There was no need to get herself so worked up. So what if her dream job at the Ministry depended on a glowing review from one Draco Malfoy? She was a good employee, dammit; she deserved a good reference. She had seen off a number of candidates to get to this point, and she wouldn't give in.

She put her mug down and took the Ministry letter out of her jacket pocket. They wanted the reference by Friday, preferably before. That didn't give her much time to procrastinate. She needed to give Malfoy enough time to write it, especially if she wanted more than a few scrawled complaints about her frizzy hair and frumpy dress sense.

She was just pondering whether to bring it up before Malfoy's big presentation tomorrow morning, when the fireplace roared to life.

Hermione leapt out of her chair with a start, sending papers flying and unfortunately, her lovely mug. Almost every file in her immediate vicinity was instantly soaked with a tsunami of steaming coffee.

For a moment, all she could do was stare. It was just going to be that kind of day, wasn't it?

"Granger," Malfoy said from the flames, as she snapped into action, scrabbling to move everything else on her desk out of range. "Get that bushy head of yours in here." He vanished before she could reply. A second later, he reappeared. "Oh, and bring me the March report, will you?"

"Just a minute," Hermione said nervously, but he was already gone. Alone once more, she surveyed her desk with a sigh. It had to be the one document he wanted to see that had taken the brunt of her coffee spill, didn't it? A scourgify or two later and it was mostly salvaged. It took her a few further minutes to mop up the spill and make sure no other critical documents had been damaged. Then, knowing Draco wasn't a very patient wizard, she headed down the hall to his office.

"About time," he said, spinning round his dark leather chair to glare at her. His hair was damp, and there was a sleep crease across his left cheek, which ruined the effect somewhat. Hermione ignored him anyway; he was always grumpy in the morning.

"I have the report," she said, handing it to him over his desk.

"Is this… a tea stain?" he asked, blond eyebrows furrowing as he examined it.

"No," she said quite truthfully. "Was there something else I could do for you?"

The change of subject worked; Malfoy put down the report.

"I was doing some work at the Manor last night and left some important papers there this morning." He glanced at the clock on the wall. "I've got to go out soon, so I need you to go get them for me. Please," he added belatedly when he saw her expression. "You can use my Floo."

Hermione nodded and headed towards his fireplace—the only Floo aside from the one in the lobby that allowed people to travel in and out of the office building.

"Where are they?"

"Bedside table," he replied. She stopped, squinting at him suspiciously over her shoulder.

"I'm not going to find a witch in your bed again, am I?"

Draco flashed her a grin, leaning back in his chair and tucking his hands behind his head.

"Do you think I'd have been working in bed if there was a witch in it?"

Hermione rolled her eyes and turned back to the fireplace.

"No," she said. "I imagine you wouldn't."

He let out a short bark of laughter.

"Tell me, Granger," he said. "Do you often imagine me in bed?"

After nearly three years of borderline—and often outright—sexual harassment, Hermione knew better than to blush and stammer.

"If you mean death bed," she said sweetly. "Then every day." And with that, she grabbed a handful of Floo powder and stepped into the fireplace. "Malfoy Manor!"

Finding Draco's bedroom was easier said than done. Of course, the Manor's Floo didn't spit her out directly there, and the one time she'd been in it—when she'd found a nude and admittedly lovely young woman languishing in his bed—she'd been so mortified, she could barely remember what else she did that day, let alone the way to Draco's boudoir through the Manor's maze of rooms, corridors and obnoxious paintings.

Luckily, find it she did, and (even more luckily, in Hermione's opinion) it was empty, aside from the stacks of papers and empty tea cups scattered across every flat surface. Malfoy was almost as addicted to tea as she was to coffee.

"Took you long enough," he grumbled as she stepped out of the fireplace, back into his office. He was standing almost on top of the hearth, dressed in smart outdoor robes, and Hermione took a small step back, startled at his nearness.

"Your house is a labyrinth," she said, handing him the folder of papers she had swept up from his bedside table. "Also, your portraits are abhorrent. Every single painting I passed made some vulgar comment"

Malfoy's mouth quirked.

"I wouldn't take it personally," he said, tucking the file under his arm. "They bully the house elves something awful."

Hermione's lips parted in indignation, but he was already on his way out, heading, she presumed, towards the office's apparition point.

"Oh, Granger," he said, pausing at the door. "I need to go over a few things with you about tomorrow's meeting before you leave tonight. I'll drop by your office this afternoon."

Oh yes. Tomorrow's important meeting. The company had made one or two bad deals this year, losing money in the process – not a lot, but enough for Malfoy's investors to sit up and take note. They had demanded an update, an explanation and plans for recovery, which Draco had been forced to organise. Hence, tomorrow's meeting, for which a number of key investors were travelling in from all over the world, wizards and Muggles alike.

Malfoy was acting rather blasé about it all, but Hermione knew he was a great deal more anxious about it than he let on, so had spent the last two months working her backside off to ensure everything would run smoothly.

She nodded.

"I'll be there."


	2. Chapter 2

Hermione returned to her office and spent the rest of the day buried in paperwork. Malfoy Inc. had embraced muggle technology to a certain extent—the sleek computer sat on her desk was a testament to that—but it seemed old habits die hard, and most employees, Hermione included, preferred to work with quill and parchment.

Still, she supposed, it was probably a good thing the wizarding world hadn't yet discovered the joys of email. Think of all the owls that would be out of a job.

At any rate, tomorrow's meeting kept her swamped with never-ending tasks as she finished off hand-outs, double-checked the catering arrangements and fielded a wide range of stupid questions from various employees about what exactly did she mean when she said magic-free zone, and really how could she expect them to go a whole day without magic, and galloping gargoyles, what if there was an _emergency_?! By mid-afternoon, she was seriously considering resurrecting Ginny's beloved bat bogey hex, human resources be damned.

In the end, she settled for a simple locking charm on her door, which provided a break from the endless stream of paper plane memos.

The afternoon passed quickly after that, and she didn't stop working until she suddenly realised she was struggling to read the words on the page. Looking up, she discovered the sun was sinking towards the skyline, and the hands on the clock read five to seven.

Seven. Hermione was sure that time was significant. What was she supposed to…?

Oh! She shot to her feet, grabbed her bag and robe, and fled. Merlin's pants, she had promised to be at Grimmauld Place for seven!

She took the foyer Floo home, stumbling out into the living room of her townhouse in a burst of green flame. The gong on the old grandfather clock in her hallway struck seven.

Hermione tossed her coat and bag on the sofa, almost killing her cat—"Sorry, Crookshanks!"—and dashed upstairs. She stripped off as she ran, launching herself into the shower and immediately regretting it when water so cold it was almost slush sluiced her from head to toe. Four years in this place and she still forgot to cast a warming charm.

" _Caldus_!" she cried once she'd retrieved her wand from the floor, and mercifully, the old pipes responded. She would really have to get that fixed.

She showered quickly, very aware that her friends would be waiting. Fortunately, she was an organised woman and had laid out her clothes for tonight's gathering yesterday evening. She rarely dressed up outside work, but Ginny had made it clear she should make an effort so she'd chosen an emerald green silk blouse with fitted black jeans and boots.

Clean and dressed, she inspected herself in the mirror. The hasty drying spell she'd used on her hair had made it crackle up like it was full of static electricity, but it would have do. A slick of peach lipstick later and she was ready to go; she just needed to grab her bag from the lounge.

Crookshanks met her at the foot of the stairs, attempting to twine his fluffy self around her legs as she walked.

"No, Crookshanks," she scolded. "You're getting fur all over my trousers!"

The disobedient cat only ramped up his rubbing, sending her tripping into the living room as she attempted to disentangle herself without hurting him.

"Crookshanks, really…"

"Sweet baby Merlin, what have you done to your hair?"

Hermione's head snapped up.

"Malfoy!" she said, alarmed.

He appeared disturbingly at home, slouched comfortably on her sofa with the top few buttons of his shirt unfastened and tie loosened.

"Malfoy," she seethed. "What are you doing in my living room?"

"Well, good evening to you too, Granger," he said. "I told you I needed to talk to you before you left."

Hermione folded her arms across her chest.

"I stayed until seven," she said. "I do have a life, you know."

"Ha!" Malfoy said rudely. "Wait…" He sat upright, eyes narrowed. "You're wearing make-up."

Hermione suddenly felt very self-conscious under that silver-eyed scrutiny. Flushing slightly, she drew herself up to her full height. It helped that he was sat down while she stood; it would be difficult to look down her nose at him if he was towering over her.

"I'm going out," she said loftily, before remembering why she'd been rushing around prior to his unwelcome interruption. "And I'm late," she added, snatching up her bag from beside him. "If you really need to talk, I'll Floo you when I get back."

Malfoy didn't move.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

Hermione shrugged on her coat.

"With all due respect, Malfoy, it's really none of your business."

"The Burrow?" he guessed. "Grimmauld Place?" She must have twitched or something, because he grinned. "So you're getting dressed up for Potter, eh? Or maybe it's one of the Weasleys… Ron? George?"—he leered at her—"Ginevra?"

"Don't be ridiculous," she snapped, turning on her heel and stomping out of the living room. "I'll talk to you later, Malfoy," she called from the hall, grabbing a patterned cloth scarf from the banister and looping it around her neck. "Please go home."

"Fine," he responded. "But make sure you do. Have a good time at Potter's."

Hermione paused, waiting for the insult—despite having long abandoned the majority of his childhood prejudices, Malfoy couldn't seem to shake his rivalry with Harry and Ron—but to her surprise, all she heard was the muted crack of Disapparition as he left.

She stuck her head round the lounge doorway to check he really had gone, then darted over to examine the fireplace. Her wards allowed guests to Apparate out of the house, but prevented anyone but her from Apparating in; those that tried were promptly and unceremoniously deposited on her doorstep. Draco's only way in uninvited, therefore, was through the Floo—and that was a problem easily solved.

A bit of wandwork later and she was satisfied he wouldn't be able to bother her again tonight. As she pulled her head out of the empty fireplace, she noticed her cat sat on the edge of hearth, watching her with a severe expression.

"What?" she asked defensively.

At almost 35—late middle-age in cat-kneazle years—Crookshanks had grown very good at communicating his disapproval with just one stern look. He stared at her, yellow eyes unblinking, and she groaned.

"Yes, I know I need that letter. But he really is out of line barging in uninvited like that."

He cat remained unmoved, intensifying his silent condemnation to a level usually reserved for Ron, and she sighed.

"I'll call him when I get back, okay?"

Crookshanks inclined his head, and certain she had just been dismissed, Hermione raised her wand to Disapparate.

"Catch you later, puss."

* * *

Ginny must have been watching out for her, because the moment Hermione materialised on the front step, the door flew open. All she got was a glimpse of red hair before she was dragged inside.

"You're late," Ginny said, looking put out. "Everyone's here."

"I'm sorry," Hermione said, slipping out of her coat and scarf. "I got held up at work—we've got this enormously important meeting—then Malfoy turned up at my house…"

"You need a new job," Ginny said, holding out her hand for the other woman's robe. "Malfoy takes advantage of your desire to organise."

Hermione privately agreed, but felt it was also a little unfair to place all the blame on Malfoy. She was, after all, the mug that took it.

"I like my job," she said. When Ginny simply arched a brow, she laughed. "I do! It just takes up a little more of time than I originally intended, that's all."

"A little," Ginny scoffed. "It's bloody Devil's Snare! When was the last time you went on a date?"

Hermione frowned, thinking back. There was that one a month or two ago with that nice wizard from the bookshop… no wait—she cancelled that. Malfoy had needed her to work late. Then there was that accountant from the floor below her at Malfoy Inc. who asked her out in January… no, she had cancelled that too. Malfoy had needed her to join him on a business trip. But that couldn't be it. There was… there was…

With growing horror, she realised she hadn't been on a date at all this year—and it was nearly the end of April!

"See? You can't even remember," Ginny said when Hermione failed to respond. "Oh!" she said, clapping her hands together at her chest. "I could set you up! I'll ask Harry if he knows anyone at the Ministry."

"No, not the Ministry," Hermione said, alarmed. Knowing her luck, Ginny would set her up with her potential boss and Rita Skeeter would accuse her of sleeping her way to the top.

"Why not?" Ginny asked curiously. Hermione hesitated. She hadn't told anyone about her interview yet, and there was still a chance the Ministry wouldn't offer her the position. She didn't want to build it up to her friends, only to have to tell them she didn't get the job.

Fortunately, she was saved from replying when Harry appeared in the doorway at the end of the hall.

"Is she here yet?" he asked, before catching sight of his tardy friend. "Hermione!" He strode over to greet her with a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek.

"I'm sorry I'm late," Hermione said, returning the hug fondly.

"Don't worry. You're not as late as my wife is making out," he said, twinkling at Ginny from behind his glasses. "Is she giving you a hard time?"

"Very," Hermione replied. "She's scarier than Malfoy."

"Oh shut up," Ginny huffed, but she was definitely suppressing a smile. Harry moved to wrap an arm around her waist and pull her into his chest, and the stifled smile became a giggle.

"Everyone's waiting," Harry said, glancing between the two of them. "I'm keeping them well watered but Ron is getting closer and closer to the food table."

"We were just coming," Ginny said, slipping her hand through Harry's and gesturing for Hermione to follow them down the hall.

"I hope you weren't all waiting for me," Hermione said, embarrassed, as she did so.

"Well, we were," Harry told her. "But only because Ginny banned anyone from eating before we tell them the news."

"News?" Hermione asked, intrigued. "What news?"

"Wait and see!" Ginny called over her shoulder.

Hermione's arrival to the living room was met with a chorus of greetings and exclamations. She smiled self-consciously and apologised, but no one was particularly peeved with her.

She knew Harry and Ginny had only invited close friends, but with a family the size of the Weasleys, it felt like the whole of the wizarding world had been crammed into their living room. Arthur, Molly and all the Weasley brothers, save Charlie, were here with their respective partners—Ron and Lavender, George and Angelina, Bill and Fleur, Percy and Audrey, even Fred with his current girlfriend, a pretty muggleborn named Iris. Neville and Hannah had also accepted the invitation, as had Luna and Rolf.

As usual, Hermione was the only one without a date. Refusing to dwell on it, however, she sat herself on the floor next to Angelina, who was struggling to keep a wriggling Roxanne in her lap.

George's wife smiled her greeting.

"Look who's here, Roxy!" she said, bouncing the toddler up and down on her legs. Hermione waved at the little girl, who was looking particularly cute tonight with her ginger afro curls loose to spring wildly from her head. "Want to sit with Auntie Mione?"

The little girl allowed herself to be handed over, and although she made one or two enthusiastic grabs with sticky fingers for Hermione's hair, settled down quite quickly.

Satisfied her audience was in place, Ginny raised her hands for attention.

"Okay. Now that everybody's here," she began, throwing a good-natured but pointed look in Hermione's direction. "Harry and I have some news to share…" she paused dramatically, prolonging the suspense until Harry nudged her in the side.

"We're going to have a baby!" they said together.

A momentary pause, as everyone absorbed the information, and then the room erupted into cheers and rowdy congratulations.

"When's it due?" Audrey called above the ruckus, which subsided somewhat at the question.

"I'm ten weeks along," Ginny replied, patting her stomach. "The baby is due in November."

The congratulations resumed, with hugs and kisses for the expecting couple all round. Hermione managed to give Harry a quick peck, but had to wait a while to get to Ginny, laughing as the younger woman fought to release herself from her mother's copious bosom.

"I'm so glad I saved my maternity clothes," Molly was saying, unmoved by her daughter's squirming. "I'll have to dig them out for you. Oh, I had this lovely knitted dress in turquoise and orange that will look marvellous on you."

"Sounds great, mum." Ginny said, pulling a horrified face at Hermione over her mother's shoulder. "Hey, um, mum, can I hug Hermione now?"

Molly reluctantly let her go, heading off to congratulate Harry.

"I thought the hand-me-downs would end when I left home," Ginny said dryly, as Hermione shifted Roxy on her hip and pulling her into a one-armed embrace. "Let's hope I have a girl," she added. "Imagine all the baby clothes I'll get if I have a boy."

"You know Molly's not worried about gender," Hermione teased, remembering Ginny's chunky jumpers and dungarees. "You'll get those baby clothes no matter what."

Ginny blew out her cheeks.

"Merlin, my poor baby."

Hermione looked down at her friend's flat belly.

"How long have you known?"

"For nearly seven weeks," Ginny admitted. "We decided to wait a while before we told anyone."

Hermione's mouth dropped open.

"You sly thing!" she gasped. "I didn't suspect for a moment."

"I know. I can't believe I held out so long. It's been killing me!"

"I'm so pleased for you," Hermione said with a smile. "You're going to be a great mum."

Ginny suddenly, and very uncharacteristically, welled up.

"Thank you," she said, before covering her eyes with her hands. "Oh Godric, I'm already getting emotional."

Hermione laughed and pulled her friend into another hug. She felt unexpectedly weepy herself—and she didn't have the excuse of being pregnant.

With a prospective new job and two of her closest friends expecting a baby, it seemed like everything was changing all at the same time. And Hermione wasn't entirely sure she was ready.

"Ronald Weasley," Molly hollered above the low buzz of conversation. "Get your face out of that trifle this instant!"

Then again, Hermione thought with sudden cheer, some things never change.


	3. Chapter 3

The evening took on a festive atmosphere after Harry and Ginny's surprise announcement, and Hermione quite lost track of time. She didn't Apparate home until well after midnight and crawled straight into bed, exhausted from the combination of party, busy day at work and sleepless night prior.

She'd been asleep for some time when a shrill ring cut through her dreams. Lifting her head and squinting blearily into the darkness, she saw a flashing blue light on her bedside table. It took her a second to put it all together, but then she realised someone was phoning her landline.

"What in the name of…" she murmured groggily, reaching for the handset. "Hello?"

"You disconnected your Floo," Draco said sternly.

Hermione's face hit the pillow.

"Malfoy," she said, her voice muffled. "It's two in the morning."

There was a pause at the other end of the line, then a rustle of paper. Hermione could imagine him working by lumos light among piles and piles of parchment, surrounded by empty teacups and chocolate frogs.

"Oh," he said, surprised. "So it is."

Hermione lifted her head with an ill-tempered groan.

"What do you want?"

Malfoy tutted.

"So grumpy, Granger. May I remind you who signs your pay cheque?"

Godric, she was going to murder the man.

"Malfoy, I repeat – it is two o'clock in _morning_. What do you want?"

"You said you'd call," he said accusingly.

Damn it. So she had—she promised Crookshanks and everything.

But that didn't mean he had to ring her in the middle of the night! Ginny was right; the man was Devil's Snare and he was taking over her life.

"I'm sorry," she said, making a conscious effort to sound like she didn't want to beat him about the head with his own wand. "I got back late."

"Somehow," he replied snidely. "You found the time to disconnect your Floo."

Oh, he really was the _limit_.

"Do you have any idea," she bit out. "How many extra hours I have put in over the last few months, making sure everything is ready for tomorrow? I have gone above and beyond my duties, doing hundreds of ridiculous little admin tasks you said you could trust to no one but me—on top of everything as part of my own job!"

Her voice had risen rapidly, along with her temper, during her rant, and was now bordering on shrill. She took a slow breath, eyes closing briefly as she fought for composure.

"It is the middle of the night," she said. "I am absolutely exhausted, and I have to be up and in the office in five hours' time. So tell me, Malfoy. What. Do. You. Want?"

Silence.

Her bedroom seemed very quiet after her outburst, and Hermione suddenly feared she'd gone too far. She'd snapped at him before—he knew exactly how to push her buttons and deliberately did so, often—but this felt different.

"Look, Draco…" she began hesitantly, but he interrupted her.

"I wanted to run my opening speech past you," was all he said. "For tomorrow's presentation."

Oh. She faltered.

"Okay," she said slowly.

"You'll listen?"

"Sure." She rolled over onto her back and stared up into the darkness. "Go on."

He read through his speech and they worked on it for a little while—mostly amicably, although Draco was a little miffed when Hermione told him he wasn't allowed to make a rude joke about the Minister of Magic. ("That's censorship!" he'd raged, evidently forgetting none of the mainly Muggle audience would have the foggiest idea who the Minister was anyway).

Mercifully, the address wasn't a long one and it was already very well put together. Hermione simply added a few more pleasantries—Malfoy had the tendency to be a bit curt—and switched out the wizarding idioms for more Muggle friendly phrases.

You never know. He might actually stick to his script this time.

"Are we done yet?" Hermione asked eventually.

"Why?" Malfoy teased. "Got something better to do?"

Hermione wished he was in the room so she could give him the stink eye.

"I don't know," she said flatly. "Sleep?"

He chuckled.

"Fine, we're done," he said, and she heaved a sigh of relief. "No – wait!"

Hermione stifled another groan.

"What?" she asked through gritted teeth.

"What colour tie should I wear?"

"Goodnight, Malfoy," she said and hung up, then, for good measure, dragged herself half out of bed to unplug the phone from the wall.

* * *

She slept straight through her alarm. Not surprising, considering how little sleep she'd gotten, but the result was a frenetic and stressful start to the day.

She arrived at Malfoy Inc. much later than she'd planned, only to find an owl waiting for her on her desk. It was from Ginny, letting her know she had set her up with a player from another Welsh team she and the Holyhead Harpies had recently competed against.

"Already?" Hermione murmured in surprise. Merlin, the woman worked fast!

_Tonight at seven_ , the note continued. _Meet at The Three Broomsticks. His name is Dugan, and he's lovely._ Ginny had underlined lovely three times and drawn a little heart just below.

Hermione felt like she should be annoyed with her friend—the only thing she wanted to do this evening, after yet another sleepless night and what she knew would be a busy day, was to curl up with a book and a fat mug of hot chocolate—but she did appreciate the sentiment behind it. And who knows, maybe Dugan would be lovely.

She scribbled out her assent at the bottom of the note and sent it back to Ginny, before noticing the clock and realising she really didn't have time to waste organising her love life. She needed to be downstairs, taking care of the last-minute preparations in the conference room.

She did so, and delegates—mainly investors or their representatives—began arriving half an hour later.

So far, so good.

But it seemed it was too early for a self-congratulatory coffee. When Hermione stopped rushing around and started greeting people, she realised Draco had not yet made an appearance. She asked a few different members of staff if they'd seen him, but no one had.

Fighting the rising anxiety, she returned to the fifth floor to check his office.

He wasn't there.

Okay, breathe, she told herself. He'll be here soon. We still have—she glanced at the clock, and swallowed—half an hour.

She paced Malfoy's office, frantically devising a contingency plan should he fail to show in time. She could give a few words of welcome, then launch straight into the first part of the presentation, which one of the other management staff could handle. It would be fine. It would _all_ be fine.

Oh, who was she kidding? If Malfoy missed this meeting, they could kiss any hope of redemption goodbye.

Ten minutes passed with no sign, and Hermione left his office briefly to warn other members of senior staff of the situation.

What was he thinking?! she fumed on her way back. He knew how important this meeting was. He'd reminded her of this fact at least twice a day for the last two weeks.

Her hand slipped inside her jacket pocket to touch the Ministry's letter.

She didn't need this. She didn't deserve the stress. At the Ministry, she'd have one job to do instead of one hundred. She'd start at nine, clock out at five, and most important of all, no one would bother her in the middle of the night.

The moment she saw Draco, she'd tell him she was looking for a new job—critical presentation or no.

Worked up to the extreme by now, she burst through his office door, intent on tracking him down via Floo… only to find him sat at his desk, flicking calmly through a leaf of parchment.

Her mouth dropped open, and she gaped at him, utterly dumbstruck.

Malfoy glanced up at her, unperturbed.

"Oh, there you are, Granger," he said. "Aren't you supposed to be downstairs?"

Hermione was speechless.

"You – you… where… how… _Malfoy_ ," she ground out finally.

He looked at her properly then, eyebrows gathered in confusion.

"Are you alright, Granger?" he asked. "You look like you've seen a boggart."

Hermione couldn't believe it. The man was _genuinely_ oblivious. She wanted to box his ears. She wanted to box them so _badly_.

She tore the Ministry letter from her pocket and stormed over to his desk.

"I need a reference for a new job," she spat, slamming it down in front of him. "And I need it by Friday. All the details are in there."

Draco looked so shocked she might have laughed had she not been so entirely livid.

His mouth opened once, then closed, then opened once more.

" _Hermione_ ," he said finally in a strangled voice.

He didn't often use her first name, and it sent an unexpected tremor down her back. She shook it off, drawing herself up to her full height.

"We thought you wouldn't get here on time," she said stiffly. "Beth is preparing to give the opening address. You'd better go tell her you're here and then get ready to open. We're due to start in ten minutes."

A moment's silence, as Malfoy looked down at the letter sat innocently between them.

"Okay," he said eventually. "Okay."

Hermione watched, silent, as he pocketed the scroll and got slowly to his feet. She resisted the urge to take a step back as his tall, lean body unfurled and he towered over her.

"We'll talk later," he said firmly, and those molten silver eyes met hers with such sudden blazing intensity that she was forced to swallow. Hard.

"Yes," she whispered.

He nodded once, tense and taut, then he was gone, sweeping out of the room and leaving Hermione standing, stunned and alone, in his empty office.


	4. Chapter 4

Draco did stick to his script, as it happened, but he was clearly distracted and his usual nonchalant charisma was rather strained. Luckily for Hermione's guilty conscience, however, his less than best was still better than most, and his speech seemed to be well-received – if the slowly softening looks of their investors were anything to go by.

Once his part of was over, Malfoy returned to his seat—sod's law, it was directly opposite Hermione. He caught her eye as he sat, and, determined to be mature, she tried for a brief smile of encouragement; it came out as more of a grimace, and she looked away before she could see his response.

Needless to say, she spent the rest of the morning carefully avoiding his gaze.

Apparently Malfoy felt the same way, because the moment the meeting broke for lunch, he was up and off without even a glance in her direction. He seemed to have recovered his charm though, and Hermione watched from her seat as he began moving around the room, schmoozing the intimidatingly powerful businessmen and women with a confidence and magnetism she envied.

Not in the mood for mingling herself however, Hermione made her excuses and went to double-check the catering arrangements, before escaping upstairs to eat her lunch in her office. Malfoy and his other executives were conducting a series of smaller meetings with the investors this afternoon, so she didn't think she'd be missed. Quite frankly, she didn't have the energy to organise anything more.

The majority of her management colleagues were downstairs, so the fifth floor, usually a veritable hub of activity, felt much quieter than Hermione was used to. Under normal circumstances, she might have enjoyed the peace, but today she just felt isolated.

Still, it meant a couple of hours' worth of uninterrupted work, which she doggedly made the most of. Once or twice she caught herself replaying the morning's events—her anger, that letter, the look on his face—but banished it all from her mind before she could work herself up to superhuman levels of mortification.

And she _was_ mortified. Dreadfully so. After all that agonising over how she was going to approach Malfoy—how she was going to wait until after the meeting so she wouldn't distract him—she'd gone and thrown it in his face minutes before that all-important moment.

We'll talk later, he'd said ominously. And later came at three-thirty that afternoon with a curt knock on her door.

"Granger, are you in there?" He sounded impatient.

She picked up a few files to casually flick through so she wouldn't look like she'd been brooding. Which she _hadn't_.

"Yes," she called. "Come on in."

She winced slightly as Malfoy slammed the door shut behind him.

"Is everything okay?"

"No," he said. "I need a drink."

It took her a moment to comprehend—that was hardly what she'd been expecting him to say—but when she did, she couldn't help a snark.

"There's a jug of water on the sideboard," she said primly, and he shot her a dirty look.

"Not that kind of drink," he said grumpily, but stomped over the cabinet anyhow. She watched guardedly as he poured himself a glass and took a huge gulp.

The silence that followed was discomforting. Hermione wasn't sure what to say, and it seemed Draco wasn't entirely at ease either; he downed the glass of water like a shot of firewhisky.

"What's wrong?" she asked when he finally came up for air.

His lips narrowed.

"We're going to Marseille," he said. "Gouin rang. He's threatening to ditch his shares."

Hermione slumped back in her chair.

Self-made business tycoon Benoît Gouin was one of Malfoy's biggest muggle investors. He had been invited to today's meeting, but had refused to make the journey to London from where he was based in Marseille. Aside from being perhaps the most difficult man to walk the planet (quite a feat, Hermione often thought, with wizards like Draco competing for the title), Gouin was also unfathomably influential in the arena of international business. If he withdrew his support from Malfoy Inc., it could prove catastrophic.

Hermione wasn't surprised Malfoy was dropping everything to meet with him in Marseille. What worried her was that he seemed to expect her to go with him.

She hated Gouin. And Draco knew it.

"We?" she asked suspiciously.

He sauntered over to perch on her desk.

"You and I," he enunciated. "I need you to organise a portkey and book a hotel. We leave tonight."

Tonight?!

"I can't go tonight," she said tartly. "I have a date."

Draco looked unimpressed.

"Cancel it."

"No," she said. "That's not fair." She realised she sounded like a spoilt child the moment she said it, and pinked as Malfoy arched a single blond eyebrow. "It's too last minute," she amended. "You can't expect me to just cancel my plans at the drop of a hat."

Malfoy fixed her with a stern look.

"This meeting with Gouin could mean the survival of this company," he said. "You may not care about that long-term, but last time I checked, you still work for me—and I do."

Hermione sucked in her teeth. So that's what this is about, she thought sourly. _Revenge_.

"I care about the survival of the company," she said.

Malfoy apparently took that as assent.

"Good," he said, standing and striding towards the door. "See if you can book us each a suite at The Opera House Hotel. Ask for Monsieur Dimont and mention my name. Then head home. You'll need to pack."

Hermione pushed back her chair and rose.

"I haven't agreed to go yet, Malfoy," she said, just before he reached the door. "And we need to talk. About my reference."

He stopped, just as she had hoped he would. A long, tense moment, stretched as thin as elastic, and then he turned.

"Consider it done," he said quietly.

Hermione just stared. That was it? No outrage? No bargains? No... nothing?

What was his game?

"I'm sorry you have to cancel your plans today, Granger," he continued, uncharacteristically hesitant. "But I need you there. There—there's no one else I trust as much as you to help me with this."

His words and the self-conscious look on his face startled her. Godric knew it wasn't often Draco admitted how much he needed anyone's help, let alone hers. But he was clearly being honest with her—he wouldn't look half so uncomfortable if he wasn't.

"Okay," she heard herself say. "But I get first choice of rooms."

He looked relieved.

"Deal."

* * *

Ginny wasn't best pleased when Hermione owled her to cancel her blind date, but she agreed to see if Dugan was willing to reschedule. Hermione made a valiant effort not to tally up the many dates Draco had (indirectly, she hoped) made her cancel.

Before he left her office, Malfoy had told her he expected to be in Marseille until the end of the week, so she booked tonight's private international portkey with a return for Friday evening (an appallingly expensive luxury, but Malfoy flat out refused to take a Muggle plane) and reserved them rooms at the stately wizarding hotel he had requested, before doing what he suggested and taking the Floo home to pack.

"You're going where?" Harry asked incredulously when she contacted him via Floo a little later.

"Marseille. I won't be gone long," she added. "Till Friday at the latest." She put on her best beseeching look. "Please pretty please could you or Ginny feed Crookshanks for me? He only needs fresh food and water once a day, and maybe let out for a little bit of exploring."

Harry didn't take much persuasion, and since he'd looked after Crookshanks before, she only quickly reminded him where she kept the cat food and the back door key.

"I can't believe Malfoy sprung this on you like this," he said once he'd assured her he knew what he was doing. He looked suitably miffed on her behalf, which Hermione appreciated—but she once again felt she had to defend Malfoy.

"Well, to be fair," she admitted. "He didn't know about it until this afternoon either. It's a bit of a crisis really. We've got to sort it out or risk losing one of our biggest investors."

Harry pushed his glasses up his nose.

"Still," he said. "He asks a lot of you."

Hermione sighed.

"I know, I know," she said. "I should quit."

Harry looked surprised.

"I don't think you should quit. Can't stand the git myself, but you and Malfoy work well together. Plus," he added wryly. "I know you enjoy his dramatics more than you let on."

His words stayed with Hermione as she said goodbye and busied herself packing a small travel bag. Did she enjoy Draco's dramatics? Maybe she did. She would roll her eyes and sigh, but when it came down to it, she thrived on organising people—and Malfoy gave her a lot to organise.

They still hadn't really talked about her reference though, she realised as she zipped up her holdall—about what it would mean for her, for Malfoy, if the Ministry offered her the job. Not that she'd accept any counter offers he made. This trip to Marseille wasn't his fault, but it was the last straw.

She'd need to let him know that sooner or later, of course. Then again, he'd promised her he'd write the letter, and the man she'd gotten to know over the last few years was not someone who would let her down. Even if he sometimes acted like he might.

Hermione hadn't scheduled the portkey to leave from Malfoy Inc. until quarter past seven that evening, so she had some time to spare after she finished packing—time that, on a regular day, she would spend in the office. But today was not a regular day, and she took the opportunity to slump on the sofa with a sneaky glass of wine.

As she relaxed, boneless, into the cushions, her eyes landed on a small stack of paperbacks beside her. She picked up the topmost book—a Muggle murder thriller she'd picked up from a local store a few weeks ago. She'd started it straight away, but any spare time she'd had recently had been spent catching up on missed sleep or making sure she didn't just live on ready-meals and takeaways. Consequently, the bookmark sat only halfway through the wedge of pages.

Feeling deliciously indulgent, she let herself sink into a world of rugged American cops, blood-soaked crime scenes and forensic mind-games. So absorbed was she in her reading that she very nearly fell off the sofa when the grandfather clock tolled seven.

She spent a few mad minutes racing round her house, checking doors, windows, and the location of her spare key, before kissing Crookshanks goodbye, grabbing her bags and her book, and taking the Floo to the office foyer.

"Cutting it a bit fine, aren't you?" Malfoy said as she lurched out of the fireplace the wrong side of ten past seven, almost tripping over her long cloth scarf in the process.

She straightened, pushing her unruly and, quite honestly, slightly sweaty mass of curls back from her face to glare at him.

He cut an urbane figure, leant casually up against a pillar in his grey suit and black woollen overcoat, blond hair slicked back in a loose quiff. He looked… good, and the realisation made her prickle.

"I'm not late yet," she said tersely.

Her irritation grew when he pushed off the pillar and approached her, a decidedly impish glint in his eye.

"Whatever happened to Little Miss Early-bird?" he teased, reaching out to take the holdall from her hand. "You were the only member of the Golden Threesome to ever make it to class on time."

"Trio," she snapped. "You know full well they call us the Golden Trio."

"Not in the papers _I_ read," he said with a wink.

Hermione swept her scarf over her shoulder with a humph.

"I dread to think what you read in your spare time," she said. " _The Prince_? _Mein Kampf_?"

"Ouch," he said with an exaggerated wince, then smirked when he saw her expression. "Don't look so surprised. Malfoy Inc. began in muggle Europe, remember?"

She did. His exploits away from London and across the Continent made excellent small talk at business meetings, and he recounted them frequently.

"How could I forget?" she asked drily. "Speaking of Europe…" She glanced at the clock on the wall and saw it was very nearly quarter past. "I presume the travel company owled you the portkey?"

"They did," he said, digging a copper coin the size of his palm from his coat pocket and holding it up in front of her nose. "Shall we?"


	5. Chapter 5

Travelling by a regular portkey was uncomfortable enough, but Hermione had always thought international portkeys felt like a swarm of screaming pixies dancing high-speed maypole with her intestines. The wind roared around them and she screwed up her eyes, reaching out to grab at the nearest support.

After a few moments of wild spinning, they hit the ground hard—landing, she presumed, in the foyer of Malfoy's chosen hotel. Hermione kept her eyes shut, hand clenched tightly around her anchor. It didn't matter how many times she took a portkey overseas; it always made her want to vomit.

"All right, Granger?" Malfoy asked, amusement clear in his voice, and she cracked open one eye to glare at him. He looked maddeningly unruffled, but really, had she expected anything else?

"I'm perfectly fine," she said, closing her eyes again as the world suddenly seemed to tilt on its axis and her head spun. "Whatever makes you think I'm not?"

"I don't know," he teased. "The unsightly sweaty brow? The green troll-esque tinge to your skin?" This time both of her eyes flew open to glower at him, to which he just smirked.

He was clearly enjoying her discomfort, the prat.

"Or maybe," he added amicably, "it's the death grip you have on my robe."

Hermione's gaze snapped down to where she had indeed, during the course of their travels, latched on to the lapels of his coat, and, it seemed, dragged him at least two steps closer than he should be.

She could, she realised when she looked up and caught him watching at her, count every one of the near translucent eyelashes framing those rainy day eyes.

She dropped her hand like she'd been scalded.

"Granger—" he began in an odd sort of voice.

"Ah Monsieur Draco, bienvenue!"

It was a welcome interruption. Tearing his gaze from hers, Draco turned as a man—older than she had initially expected based on his voice, and dressed in a velvet green dinner jacket—approached from across the foyer. Malfoy seemed to know him, because he stepped forward to shake the man's hand and began conversing in fast-paced French.

Hermione hung back, frowning slightly as she attempted to follow their exchange. Her knowledge of the language was limited, but from Malfoy's questions, it seemed this man was Raoul Dimont, the hotel's _propriétaire_. Draco had apparently spent some time here at The Opera House Hotel, although she couldn't work out from the conversation when. She had never been here herself; Benoît Gouin had only recently moved his business to Marseille, and previous meetings with him had been conducted in Paris.

Still feeling too woozy from the portkey to try and puzzle it out any further, Hermione turned her attention to her surroundings.

Draco had expensive taste, there was no doubt about it. The foyer of The Opera House Hotel was large and ornate, with primrose yellow walls and a black-and-white harlequin tile floor. An elaborate crystal chandelier hung above them, and although it was almost May, a fire flickered in the grate. The room was clearly designed to hit the perfect balance between grand and welcoming, but Hermione felt rather frumpy and under-dressed in her sensible low heels and tan skirt suit.

She was contemplating leaving Draco to it and finding some cheap backstreet B&B when Monsieur Dimont turned to her.

"And zis must be Madame Gronjaire," he said warmly. Hermione smiled—she had always liked the exotic way the French pronounced her name. _Gron-jaire_. She might get everyone to start calling her that back home.

Dimont captured her hand and brought it to her lips. She rather liked that too.

"Enchanté, Madame," he said. "You are as _mignonne_ as Monsieur Draco described."

Now Hermione knew enough French to understand _that_. She turned, startled, to stare at Malfoy, who was suddenly looking very nonchalant.

"I think you'll find," he said coolly. "That I described her as _grognonne_."

Dimont let out a bark of laughter.

"Of course, mon cher enfant, of course," he said, before clapping his hands towards the young concierge standing discreetly by the door. "Jean-Jacques, show Monsieur Draco et Madame Gronjaire to zeir room, si vous plaît."

"Rooms," Malfoy corrected, emphasising the 's'. Dimont chuckled again.

"Bien sûr, Monsieur," he said, then frowned as the young man ambled over. "Vite, Jean-Jacques, vite!"

Dimont bid them goodbye, and the concierge checked them in before escorting them upstairs to their suites. Draco vanished into his (hadn't he promised her first choice of room, Hermione thought crossly?), leaving the porter to show her around the other.

It was, of course, exquisite, and she couldn't stay piqued for long. She slipped off her shoes and conducted a lengthy exploration, enjoying the feel of the plush carpet beneath her bare toes.

There were three rooms—the bedroom, a bathroom (complete with a lovely array of luxury toiletries, which she spent some time testing), and a separate living room—all decorated in varying shades of cream and gold. Slender arched windows and a Juliet balcony looked out over a narrow street and small antiques store, and beyond that, the city.

They'd arrived just in time for sunset and Hermione swore she'd never seen an urban view so breath-taking. From the balconette, she had the perfect view of Notre-Dame de la Garde and its impressive spire looming imposingly over the city, and, if she leant over the bars and stretched as far as she could go, she could just about see the Vieux Port—a flash of sunlight on water and white yacht masts between close-set houses.

The evening was mild, so Hermione left her windows open and set about unpacking. She shrugged off her suit jacket and hung it up in the expansive wardrobe along with the rest of the clothes she'd packed—which, to be honest, wasn't much. Hermione was the master of packing light.

Perhaps, she thought gloomily as she surveyed her functional pencil skirts and simple blouses, Malfoy would prefer her to wear something a little more glamorous. He always dressed so tastefully; she must look so dreary next to him.

Still—and the thought settled strangely in her stomach—Draco had apparently described her to Monsieur Dimont as attractive. And then, of course, there had been that _look_. The look he'd given her when they'd both realised how very near she'd pulled him. The look that made her feel both hot and cold at the same time…

Hermione shut the wardrobe door with a bang. She didn't _care_ what Malfoy thought of her, and if she did, well, it was solely on a professional level as an employee needing a good reference. Nothing more, nothing less.

Still feeling discomfited, she wandered back across the room and flopped backwards onto the enormous bed. Travelling by portkey always wiped her out. Maybe that was the reason she felt so off-kilter. Yes, that had to be it. She was tired and her head was pounding, and the stress of the day, the last minute rush for the portkey, not to mention the journey itself, was all simply catching up on her.

She added 'hungry' to her list of excuses when her belly rumbled loudly, and she realised that she'd been so caught up in her book at home that she'd forgotten to eat. It was now nearing nine o'clock local time, and she was _starving_. Malfoy usually took her out for a meal when they were away on business, but she wasn't sure she could handle spending an hour or two sat opposite him in an intimate little French restaurant. And from the way he'd scarpered earlier, she wasn't sure he could either.

But she still needed to eat, so she dragged herself up off the bed, gave her mad hair a quick brush and headed down the hall to his room.

Malfoy answered on the first knock, tie loosened, customary teacup and saucer in hand. There was a roll of parchment tucked under his arm, and a distracted frown on his face.

She recognised that look. He was working. _Already_.

"Do you ever stop?" she asked.

He look perplexed.

"Stop what?"

" _Working_."

"Certainly," he said, with a leisurely sip of his tea. "I sleep at least two hours every night."

"I'm not even going to tell you how unhealthy that is," she said disapprovingly, and he grinned, propping his shoulder against the door frame.

"You're starting to sound like my mother," he said, then snickered. "Really Granger, you should see your face."

She remained unmoved, and he sighed in an expert approximation of long sufferance.

"I'm finishing a few things off for our meeting with Gouin," he said. "We need to be at his office for nine tomorrow, so I won't have time in the morning."

Hermione opened her mouth to offer her assistance, but the pounding in her head chose that exact moment to intensify, and she grimaced instead.

"Headache?" Malfoy asked. When she blinked at him, he shrugged. "You always get a headache when we travel by international portkey."

"Oh," she said. She hadn't thought he'd noticed. "I'm okay—I think I'm just hungry. I forgot to eat before we came, so was going to see whether you fancied coming with me to find something for tea…" she trailed off. Malfoy looked like a cornered animal. "Or I could order room service," she said hesitantly.

"Order anything you like," he replied, gesturing expansively with the parchment. "Just tell them to put it on the room."

Hermione nodded, said goodnight, and returned to her suite feeling slightly flat. She hadn't particularly wanted to go out with him, but she was a little miffed he seemed so keen to avoid going out with her.

Still, it meant she could finish her book, and perhaps even start another. She ordered herself a light meal, then dragged an armchair from the living room over to the balconette to curl up in and watch the city lights in between pages.

When room service knocked, she padded over to the door wrapped in a quilted blanket from the bed.

"Your dinaire, Madame," the concierge said, laying the table with a swish of his wand.

Hermione thanked him, and he moved to go.

"Ah, Madame Gronjaire," he said, stopping in the doorway and holding out a small vial. "I almost forget. Monsieur Malfoy ask me to give you zeze."

"Oh," she said, surprised. "Merci."

The concierge left with a polite nod, and Hermione inspected the potion Malfoy had sent her. It was amethyst purple, and twinkled like a starry sky as she twisted it in her fingers. Warmth pooled in her chest as she recognised it.

Malfoy had ordered her a headache remedy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're interested, the places mentioned here and throughout the rest of the story are all real. Google Street View has been my friend. Also, the French isn't particularly high level, but just in case, _mignonne_ means cute/appealing/pretty. _Grognonne_ means grouchy. Quick thinking there, Monsieur Malfoy, quick thinking!


	6. Chapter 6

Thursday dawned bright and spring fresh. Gouin's offices weren't far from the hotel, but since they couldn't just Apparate into his foyer, Malfoy ordered them a car. The drive was short, but Draco didn't say a word, simply flicked through a few files, jaw working tensely as he read.

Benoît Gouin, an oily sort of man with the thickest eyebrows Hermione had ever seen, greeted her jovially—Malfoy, with substantially less enthusiasm. The French businessman was famous for his contempt of old money, Malfoy and his inheritance included. Any meeting between the two of them, especially one of such importance, would likely end in fireworks. Quite literally too, unless Hermione confiscated her boss' wand, which, as a good Muggle Relations Manager, she was often obliged to do.

Maybe this time she wouldn't—especially if Gouin kept trying to kiss her.

"Ah non, ma chèrie," he chided as she moved to pull away. "It iz _three_ kisses now."

"Oh," she said faintly, ignoring the spark of mirth in Malfoy's eye and allowing herself to be kissed once more. "It's going up."

Gouin had with him a number of his executives, most of whom she and Malfoy had met before—though there was one new woman called Noémie Sartre, a formidable-looking lady with dangerously sharp shoulder pads and eyes like black onyx. Her hair was long and mostly jet black, but just to the left of her rigid centre parting ran a broad single stripe of the purest white.

After some brief pleasantries, they got right to it. Gouin's chosen conference room was small and stiflingly hot, and the discussion grew very intense very quickly. Hermione's usual role in these situations was peacemaker, but Gouin and his executives were so aggressively confrontational, she found herself on the defensive. Malfoy did an admirable job of keeping his cool, and only once did she have to elbow him under the table to stop him reaching for his wand.

"They're bloody awful," he hissed over the water cooler down the hall when they finally took a break. "And that Sartre woman," he shook his head. "She's even worse than Gouin!"

"Hm," Hermione pursed her lips. "She looks like a badger."

Malfoy nearly choked on his water laughing.

The meeting continued with little agreement until late afternoon, when Benoît decided business could wait until tomorrow; he wanted to give Hermione a tour of his offices. The invitation was grudgingly extended to Malfoy, who, much to her horror, _declined_ and made to leave.

"But how will I get back to the hotel?" she asked desperately.

"Do not worry your leettell head, Mademoiselle," Gouin assured her. "I will provide a car."

"Well, that settles it then," Malfoy said cheerily, shrugging on his overcoat. "And I'm sure Miss Granger would love to accompany you to dinner too, Benoît."

Gouin's eyes lit up, and Hermione resisted the urge to sock her boss straight in the face.

She watched murderously as Malfoy shook each man's hand and kissed the women goodbye, before pausing in front of her. Before she could react, he'd leant down and delivered a swift kiss to the cheek, just to the right of her mouth.

"Schmooze for me, Hermione," he whispered in her ear, before straightening and bestowing her a cheeky wink. "Catch you later."

And then he was gone, sailing out of the foyer and leaving Hermione staring stupidly at the empty doorway.

* * *

The tour and meal with Gouin and his associates were as unpleasant as Hermione had expected. The restaurant was lovely, if a little corporate, but her charming companions were rowdy, inappropriate and downright vulgar—and as the alcohol began to flow, it just got worse.

Gouin was shockingly rude to the waiter on several occasions, and the more wine he consumed, the more his hand kept disappearing under the table and finding its way to Hermione's thigh. In trying to avoid him she ended up crammed up against the man on her other side; said man seemed to take this as a come on and kept licking his lips at her in a manner she supposed he deemed erotic, but was, in fact, disturbingly reminiscent of Crookshanks after he'd gotten into her dirty dishes.

The party also mainly conversed in French. Fair enough, she thought—they were, after all, all French—but the rapid pace of debate and alcohol-induced slurring made it very difficult for her to interact with anyone, except in the simplest sentences. It didn't take a genius, however, to work out what badger-woman and her cronies were saying about Hermione at the other end of the table, confident she couldn't understand.

All in all, she could not _believe_ Malfoy had left her to this.

She managed to keep a smile on her face, however, conscious that Gouin responded much better to her than he ever had to Draco, and it didn't matter that she was planning on leaving the company, she still cared about its future. But by the end of the evening, it was starting to feel rather strained. Even with several glasses of expensive red wine.

Eventually though, there was a lull in the conversation, and Hermione seized her chance to ask for a car back to the hotel. Gouin walked her out, and although it took a minute or two to extricate herself from the man's half-drunken, tentacular grasp, she finally managed to escape in the back of a sleek, black sedan.

The ride was short, but long enough for the fury to brew. Malfoy could have gotten her out of this effortlessly, but he hadn't, and she knew why.

She was looking to leave, and he wasn't happy. Maybe he hadn't completely grown out of the spiteful little boy she'd known at Hogwarts after all.

The car dropped her off in front of the opera house, an attractive neo-classical building, complete with wrought-iron balconies and grand Greek columns of pale stone. Spotlights lit up the intricate carvings of nude human figures and winged mythical beasts on its façade, but Hermione barely spared them a glance, cutting briskly through the pavilion and across the small road running to its right, Rue Corneille. The entrance to the Opera House Hotel lay close to the corner—a tall wooden door with a cerulean blue frame, nestled between an upmarket hairdressers and a dingy cocktail bar.

Monsieur Dimont was reading at the front desk, looking particularly dapper tonight in a navy velvet dinner jacket. He gave Hermione a cheerful smile, which she returned, and wished her a good evening as she clattered through the lobby and up the stairs.

She presumed Malfoy would be in his room, so that was where she headed.

It was time for them to talk.

"Malfoy?" she called when he didn't answer the door. She banged again. "Malfoy!"

He clearly wasn't there—though where he could be, Hermione had no idea. But she knew someone who might.

"Madame Gronjaire," Dimont said in surprise when she returned to the foyer. "Is everyzing all right?"

"Yes – merci, Monsieur. I was just wondering, have you seen Malfoy this evening?"

"Ah oui, Madame. 'Ee left zee 'otel… eh, perhaps an hour or two ago."

"Did he say where he went?"

"Non, Madame. But 'ee favours a small Irish pub near zee Vieux Port. It is not far. I can give you directions if you wish?"

"That would be lovely, thank you, Monsieur."

Dimont scribbled down the address on a piece of parchment and handed it over.

"Zee Shamrock," he said. "It is about five minutes on foot. Muggle-owned,"—the lines around his eyes deepened with a sudden knowing smile—"so perhaps best not to burst in with zee 'exes flying, eh?"

Hermione flushed.

"That obvious?" she asked sheepishly.

He chuckled.

"Monsieur Draco does not always know what is good for him," he said wisely. "'Ee has an 'abit of driving away zee people he most cares about."

His words made Hermione feel a little uncomfortable. Monsieur Dimont had clearly been reading a little too much into her and Draco's relationship. Sure, they got on well enough, when Malfoy wasn't winding her up like a children's toy, and you might say they were friends at a stretch, and then there had been that odd little kiss earlier; nothing more than a peck really, but rather unprecedented and entirely mystifying…

"He's just my boss," she said.

"And I am just an old 'otel manager," Dimont said with a wink. "But somehow we end up more zan zeze things, do we not?"

"Monsieur, forgive my asking," Hermione said curiously. "But how is it that you know Malfoy?"

"Ach!" Dimont pressed a hand to his chest. "The story—it is not mine to tell. But I have long been a friend of his mother. She and young Monsieur Draco spent some time here in Marseille after zee war. It was a difficult time for them." He smiled, and Hermione saw the pride in his eyes. "'Ee has come a long way since then, has he not?"

The brisk night air and Dimont's clear fondness for Malfoy cooled her ire somewhat, and Hermione was decidedly calmer by the time she stepped into the little Irish pub by the harbour less than ten minutes later.

She saw immediately why Malfoy liked it here. The low amber lights and time-worn wooden beams were very reminiscent of The Three Broomsticks. It was relatively quiet—the only sounds the muted hum of conversation, the clank of glasses and the faint strains of folk music—but the atmosphere was warm and inviting, heavy with smoke.

It didn't take her long to spot Malfoy; his white blond hair practically glowed in such a dimly lit room. He was sat at the bar, his back to her, clearly nursing some sort of alcoholic beverage. She was surprised to see him dressed so casually in cappuccino-coloured chinos and scruffy brown leather jacket. She rarely saw him out of his expensive suits.

Then again, she mused, that jacket—so artfully battered—probably cost more than her entire wardrobe put together.

"Enjoying your quiet evening out?" she asked pointedly, slipping onto a bar stool beside him. He startled visibly at her sudden appearance, then smirked, downing the rest of his drink and signalling the bartender.

"Immensely," he said. "Another of your finest whiskey if you will, sir, as before, and a cider for the lady, summer fruit if you stock it."

Hermione didn't know whether to be more annoyed because he didn't consult her over her choice of drink, or because he knew exactly what she liked.

"Reckon I'll need something stronger after the night I've had," she muttered darkly as the bartender turned away. "And it was all your fault."

Malfoy's answering cackle was truly wicked.

"Really, Granger," he said. "You should act a little more grateful. I wrangled you a fancy meal in a fancy restaurant, did I not?"

"You threw me under a bus," she replied hotly. "You know I despise Gouin. He's a ghastly, slimy, boorish little man. And his executives aren't much better."

"They're not that bad…" he began.

"He kept trying to grab my bum!"

Malfoy snorted.

"Hope you hexed his bollocks off," he said.

She closed her eyes in a brief moment of suffering.

"Must you be so _crude_?"

The look he gave her suggested he could get a whole lot cruder, but luckily, the bartender chose that moment to reappear with their drinks.

"Our finest Irish whiskey on the rocks," he said, pouring it out in front of them. "And cider—summer fruits. Shall I put them both on your tab, sir?"

"You shall," Malfoy replied, saluting him with the squat whiskey glass, then taking a long draught.

"How many drinks have you had?" Hermione asked when he resurfaced, not sure she wanted to hear the answer.

She was right.

"Not nearly enough," he said with some satisfaction.

"We have meetings tomorrow…"

"Meetings schmeetings," he interrupted, pushing her glass towards her. "Drink your fruit juice."

Right now, Hermione would much rather be downing whiskey like her boss, but she sipped her cider nonetheless.

"What?" she asked, catching his amused glance.

"Even after all these years," he said, eyes raking from her utilitarian heels and neatly crossed legs to the glass of fruity cider poised rigidly at her mouth. "You're still such a prefect."

She brought her drink back down to the bar with a thud. The cheek of him!

"We're on a _business_ trip."

"Yes," he turned back to the bar, staring stolidly at the spirits lining the wall. "Your last business trip."

Ah.

Hermione studied his profile carefully.

"The Ministry haven't offered me that job yet, you know," she said.

His gaze remained fixed ahead.

"But they will."

She shrugged.

"Perhaps."

"And you'll take it."

"Perhaps," she said again.

"How much have they offered you?" he asked.

She had already decided not to be coy and named the figure the Ministry had used to entice her for an interview. It actually wasn't much more than she earned already, and she knew that Malfoy could match it in a heartbeat.

He didn't though—simply eyed her, silent, clearly a bit stumped, and she hastened to explain.

"It's not about the money, Malfoy," she said. "I just—I need a new challenge. And I want to make a difference. I've always wanted to make a difference. You know that."

"Oh yes," he said wryly. "I remember SPEW."

"You do?"

"Of course I do. Those poor elves. I'll bet they still quake in their tea towels at the mere mention of your name."

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Pig."

He grinned, a fiendish flash of white teeth. But then the smile faded.

"You make a difference here, you know," he said.

She knew she did. The magical and Muggle worlds were beginning to integrate a little better than during their school days, but finding someone willing, and able, to straddle the two was still a near impossible task.

There was a reason the Ministry had come to her—famous muggle-born and war hero to boot. But for Malfoy, replacing her would be no easy feat.

"I know," she said quietly. "But I can do more at the Ministry."

"And there's nothing I can do to make you stay?"

She considered for a moment.

"No. I don't think so."

He seemed to accept that as her final word on the matter, and they lapsed into silence. It was surprisingly affable—although she couldn't help but feel a little suspicious, watching him sip so serenely. Where was the anger? The hurt? She had expected him to fight for her. But he hadn't. He was letting her go. _Why was he letting her go?_

She took another slow sip of her cider, still sneaking glances in his direction. He seemed deep in thought, forehead creased slightly, those steel grey eyes softened by the tavern's golden lights.

He really did look good tonight, she thought unexpectedly. The casual clothes were a bit unnerving, but he looked looser, freer, a little untamed. His hair was fixed in his customary style, swept back from his face, but a single strand had fallen free across his forehead.

Hermione suddenly wanted to touch it. She wanted to touch _him_.

Merlin's beard, what was wrong with her?

Embarrassed, she tossed back her drink, feeling the welcome icy sweetness seep across her tongue.

"That's much better," he said approvingly when she drained her glass. "Want another?"

She hesitated. She'd already had a few glasses of wine with her meal, and if this unforeseen and incomprehensible attraction to her boss was anything to go by, she should probably stop here.

"I really shouldn't…"

"You think the Ministry is going to spring for drinks?" he asked. "Make the most of my generosity while you still can."

His tone was light, and she smiled, running her finger around the damp rim of her glass. He took that for assent, and ordered her another cider.

"So," she said, taking a sip from her freshly filled glass. "No free drinks once I'm gone?"

"Depends," he replied with a saucy smirk. "What do I get in return?"

The bar was beginning to fill up with rowdier customers, and he'd edged a little closer, ostensibly in order to be heard. At his proximity and his words, Hermione's mind shifted, unbidden, to the expected recompense for free drinks from a man in a bar. It made her feel hot all over.

Malfoy grinned as if he could read her dirty, dirty mind.

"You're blushing," he observed.

"No, I'm not," she insisted, slipping pointedly out of her jacket. "It's hot in here."

A blatant lie. The only thing hot about this room was the way Malfoy was looking at her right now.

Stop, she told herself sharply, shocked at the turn of her thoughts. She wasn't sure what had triggered them. She'd been so angry at him when she left the hotel. Why wasn't she angry?!

"Want some air?" he asked.

"I—uh," she faltered, embarrassed. "I'm okay. Maybe some water would help."

He nodded, and a minute later, she was supping from an ice cold bottle.

"Better?"

Considering how intensely those smoky grey eyes were searching her expression, she couldn't really say that she was. But she managed a bob of her head.

He held her gaze for a few moments more, and the air seemed to crackle around them. Eventually though, Hermione couldn't stand it anymore and looked away—across the room, up at the creaky old beams, down at her drink...

In short, anywhere but at Malfoy.

But since when had he affected her this way? Yes, they had always bantered, and maybe, to an outsider, she could admit it might almost— _almost!_ —sound like flirting. But this felt different. This felt charged.

Maybe a more neutral topic of conversation was in order. Malfoy seemed to have the same idea, because he suddenly cleared his throat.

"I didn't know you were dating," he said.

Or maybe not. Dangerous topic aside, Hermione couldn't work out where he might have heard she was seeing anyone. Didn't he realise she barely had time outside work to look after her _cat_ , let alone a boyfriend?

Seeing her surprised expression, he clarified.

"You said you had a date last night."

Oh. So she did. How had she forgotten Dugan already?

"Oh," she said. "Oh yes. I do—I mean I did. But I'm not dating. I just—well... Ginny thought I needed to spend less time working and more time sorting out my social life. She set me up with someone from the league. Last night would have been our first date."

"From the league, huh?" He tapped his finger on the counter. "Someone I'd know?"

Hermione had forgotten he was a Quidditch fan.

"Dugan something or other? He's Welsh."

"Ah," he said with a frown. "That would be Dugan Baines. He's a beater for the Caerphilly Catapults."

"A beater?" She rather liked the sound of that. "Is he any good?"

Malfoy's lips twitched.

"Any good at what, Granger?"

Merlin, the man could make anything sound lewd. She pulled a face at him.

"At _beating_."

"Oh yes," he said. "Though I should think he's taken one too many bludgers to the head to keep up with you."

"And you could?" she shot back without thinking—then immediately regretted it when his eyes gleamed.

"Keep up with you, Granger? I think we both know the answer to that."

She was fairly certain they did.

"All the same," she said pointedly, "I'm sure Ginny wouldn't have set me up with Dugan if she didn't think I'd like him."

"Oh I daresay you'll like him," Malfoy said. "But he'll bore you witless. You'll last two hours tops."

Hermione sipped her water rather than reply. Maybe Dugan wouldn't interest her long-term, but maybe that would be okay. She wasn't quite thirty yet; a no-strings fling with a famous beater might be fun. Godric knew she hadn't even kissed a man in months.

She sighed, still not feeling particularly enthusiastic. Casual sex had never really been her style.

Malfoy took her silence for despondence over her abandoned date, and hesitated.

"I'm sorry you had to cancel," he said. "This was all rather last minute."

Another apology? That made two in just as many days. Maybe he was trying to guilt her into staying.

"It's okay," she said, flashing him a wry half-smile. "I've cancelled dates for business trips before."

"You have?" he asked, apparently rather surprised.

"Oh yes," she said. "I've not managed a single date all year."

His eyebrows rose, and Hermione promptly regretted her candour. Not a single date all year. It just sounded so sad.

"Go ahead," she said glumly. "Laugh at my pathetic love life. Not that it's any of your business really," she added.

He smirked like he might make some snarky comment, but then he just shook his head.

"Honestly, Granger?" he said ruefully. "I'm in no position to laugh. I can barely remember the last time _I_ dated."

She blinked at him, startled. She could hardly imagine someone like Malfoy to be short of dates. He was, of course, insufferable as hell—incorrigible to the core—but Hermione was pretty sure he reserved such shenanigans solely for her. She'd certainly witnessed him charm rooms and rooms of women in the past.

"Really?" she asked sceptically.

"Yes."

"Really, _really_?"

He looked amused at her astonishment.

"Yes, Granger, really. Though I'm somewhat flattered you're so disbelieving."

The effects of the icy water apparently didn't last long; Hermione felt her cheeks heat once more.

"I am simply surprised," she said stiffly. "That you are unable to find some vacuous teenager to ply with pretty jewellery and free booze."

"Ouch," he said, not looking the slightest bit offended. "But you are right—as per usual, Miss Know-It-All. I supposed I could find a vacuous teenager if I tried. But the company doesn't run itself, you know. I barely have time to sleep by myself, let alone with someone else."

She grimaced—"Malfoy!"—and he snickered.

"Sorry. I couldn't resist that one."

"Well," she said firmly. "I would much appreciate it if you could resist the rest."

She expected him to laugh again, then come out with something ten times worse, but he didn't. Instead, his expression sobered, and he looked down at his drink.

She didn't know why, but her breath caught in her throat.

There was a silence, long and loaded. Then his eyes lifted to hers, and Merlin, she had never seen them so heated.

"Believe me, Granger," he said. "You have no _idea_ how much I've been resisting."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please do drop me a comment to let me know what you thought.
> 
> P.S. There really is a rather mysterious looking door with a blue frame on Rue Corneille in Marseille, and it's right in between a hairdressers and a dance club/cocktail bar called Le Bunny'z. I'm pretty sure it's not the entrance to a fancy wizarding hotel, but who knows?


	7. Chapter 7

Hermione gaped at him, thunderstruck.

Had she heard right? She couldn't have heard right.

"Wha-" she swallowed. "What did you just say?"

Malfoy broke her gaze, mouth pursing into a thin line.

"Nothing." He downed the remainder of his whiskey and brought the glass down to the bar with a thump. "Do you want another drink?"

"No," she said. "I want you to tell me what…" She stopped abruptly as he scraped his stool backwards and stood.

"Good," he said. "I'll go settle our tab."

And with that, he was gone, vanishing into the crowd of customers.

Hermione stared after him, stunned. What had just _happened_? One second Malfoy had been teasing her; the next, he was stomping off across the room.

Her cheeks flamed as she recalled his words. Their implications. The dark intensity in his eyes... But no. She had to have heard him wrong, or misunderstood him somehow.

Malfoy was not resisting _her_. There was just no way.

He emerged from the crowd a little further down the bar, and she watched as he leant forward over the counter to beckon the bartender. The hard set of his profile and the strained line of his jaw told her he was frowning. He did tend to frown a lot. She'd hoped the success of yesterday's meeting would have eased that somewhat, but then she'd gone and ruined it all with a bombshell of her own, hadn't she?

Perhaps, she speculated gloomily, he was resisting telling her what he really thought about her leaving him at a time of such significance. He'd certainly been reticent enough about it so far.

Quite unintentionally, she found her gaze slipping downwards, lingering as it did so on that broad, tense slope of his shoulder, that lean but muscular torso, down to where those pleasingly well-fitted chinos hugged his...

Horrified, she jerked herself away.

Stop. Just _stop_.

She had made a terrible mistake searching Malfoy out tonight, she realised. Staying and drinking with him had only compounded her error. Then, to top it all off, they'd somehow turned the conversation to sex.

And now she couldn't stop thinking about it.

"Ready to go?" Malfoy asked gruffly, reappearing beside her and making her jump. He was close—too close—and his whole body was wired, radiating a restless energy that sent tingles down her spine.

She gulped. Hard.

"Yes," she said. "It's getting late."

The Shamrock spilled them out onto the waterfront. The street had been fairly quiet when she arrived, but now, half an hour later, it thrummed with life. The Irish pub was surrounded by a particularly rowdy crowd, and Hermione jumped again as Malfoy caught hold of her elbow, tugging her towards him so as to prevent them getting separated.

"Okay?" he asked, as they emerged the other side. She nodded, and after a brief, tense look down at where his fingers clasped the silky material of her blouse, he released her.

They continued down the quay in silence. Hermione kept close to Malfoy's side, not entirely sure she could remember the exact route home. She supposed she should feel awkward, but instead found herself eagerly soaking up the beauty of the Mediterranean metropolis at night.

There was no moon, but the city was far from dark. In fact, it glittered, a sea of golden lights rising up before them like a tiered cake. At its very top sat the dramatic Notre Dame de la Garde, lit up against the midnight sky as if its walls were made of crystal.

So enchanted was Hermione by the spectacular church that she didn't see the bollard in her path until it was too late. It was the sensible knee-length skirt that proved her undoing; it caught on the post and pitched her face-first towards the pavement.

"Bloody hell, Granger!" Malfoy caught her arm before she hit the ground, swinging her round so she collided with his body instead. "Are you trying to kill yourself?"

She struggled to respond. The force of the impact had knocked the breath out of her, and then, when she realised that she was now pressed against his warm, solid chest, a strong arm wrapped securely around her waist … well, Hermione feared it was never coming back.

"You okay?" he asked, looking down at her with concern.

Unable to hold his gaze flattened against him this way, she glanced down to where her fingers lay splayed on the soft fabric of his polo shirt. Did he work out? Godric, it felt like it.

"Yeah," she said. "Thanks—I, uh, the skirt, it got caught."

His arm tightened around her middle, and when she dared a glance back up at him, his expression was amused.

"Shorter skirts," he said drily. "That's what you need."

She bit back a smile.

"I'll be sure to make a note."

Their gazes remained locked for a second or two longer, an unexpected crackle of affection and humour and heat passing between them, then Malfoy seemed to remember himself. He blinked, then released her, briefly taking hold of her arms to set her a firm step away from him.

"Good, well," he said a little stiffly. "As long as you're not hurt."

She smoothed down her skirt, although it wasn't particularly crumpled.

"I'm fine."

"Shall we, uh—" He gestured along the harbour.

Yes," she said, and began walking. It was a brisk, no-nonsense walk. A walk she hoped would restore her to her usual clear-headed professional self.

_He's your boss_ , she reminded herself sharply.

_Not for much longer_ , her contrary side shot back at her.

Dammit.

"You like it then?" Malfoy asked as he drew level with her once more. When she shot him a confused glance (refusing, as she did so, to note how his hair glowed like starlight), he clarified. "The church?"

Apparently, he had noticed her staring slack-jawed in awe just before she fell.

"It's beautiful," she said, relieved that they seemed to be back on more neutral ground. "I've never seen anything like it."

"It's worth a visit. The views from up there are spectacular."

"I wish I had more time to explore," she said wistfully. "Perhaps I'll come back, take a few days to see the city."

"You should," he said. "I'll speak to Dimont before we leave. He seems to like you, so he might give you his friends and family rates if I butter him up a bit."

Hermione snuck a peek at his profile. She was rather curious about his relationship with the hotel's _propriétaire_ , but it wasn't really any of her business.

"That would be nice, thank you," was all she said, but Malfoy surprised her with a knowing look.

"Go on," he said. "Ask."

His tone was mild, so she knew he wasn't offended. Still, it chafed a little how well he seemed to read her these days.

"You know what I want to ask," she said. "I asked Monsieur Dimont, but he said it wasn't his tale to tell."

"Ah, that's Raoul for you," he mused. "Ever tactful. He comes out of this story a lot better than I."

"You came here after the war?"

"Yes," he said. "Dimont is a good friend of my mother's. Once Wizengamot cleared us and we could leave the country, we came here. Dimont gave us somewhere to stay, away from everything going on in London. Away from my fath…"

He cut himself off, face closing up the way Hermione had noticed it always did when he thought of Lucius Malfoy. His jaw worked once before he continued, "Anyway, I didn't stay here long. I just needed to be alone. To get away. Even from my mother."

"Where did you go?"

He shrugged.

"Barcelona, Berlin, Ios, Amsterdam, Budapest... Pretty much any place I'd be guaranteed to get utterly shitfaced."

"Oh yes." She glanced at him sideways. "Your wild adventures across Europe."

"They were rather wild," he agreed. "But I got tired of it all eventually. Came back here. Dimont was furious I'd abandoned mother when she needed me most, but he let me stay."

Hermione could hardly imagine kindly Monsieur Dimont on the warpath, but when she said so, Malfoy just laughed.

"He tore a strip off me, let me tell you. And he was right—I was an arsehole. He gave me the wake-up call I needed to get my act together and eventually start my company."

It was strange, she thought, having this conversation with Malfoy. He was a master of diversion, and so often deflected any sort of personal question that Hermione had given up asking.

They had, of course, spoken about their personal lives before, but never quite like this. The line between boss and employee had always stood between them—a protective buffer against their less than perfect past.

But something about that letter, this trip and the clear night air had melted that barrier like ice in the sun.

"What made you return to London?" she asked quietly.

He squinted up at the darkened sky.

"You can't hide forever. Besides, as much as I tried to avoid it, most of my business came from England. It made sense to come home."

"And your mother?" She knew Narcissa lived in London now, though not at the Manor with Malfoy.

"She felt it was time to come home too."

"Are she and Dimont …?"

"Merlin, I hope not," he said, looking faintly appalled at the thought of his mother having a love life. "Not that I don't want her to be happy," he amended when he saw Hermione's face. "I keep trying to get her to file for a divorce, but she's reluctant to draw that sort of attention to herself. You know how people can be."

She did. Even today, pureblood society seemed to prefer your spouse be a criminal than an ex. And a Malfoy divorce would be front page news. Hermione felt rather sorry for poor Narcissa.

"What about you?" Malfoy asked then. "What about your parents?"

She chewed on her lip, uncomfortable—although the question was innocuous (and fair) enough.

"What about them?"

"Last time I heard they were still in Australia."

"They are," she said.

It hadn't taken her long to locate her mum and dad after the war, although she'd had to wait considerably longer before the complicated spell she'd cast on them could be undone. By the time she had them back, they'd made a life for themselves in rural Queensland and had decided to stay. It made for a few lonely weekends and holidays, but she was glad they were happy and safe. And the Weasleys ensured she was never alone for long.

"Do they visit often?"

"When they can," she said vaguely.

"Do you visit them?"

Guilt tugged at her chest. It had been a while.

"When I can."

From the look he slanted her, she realised he was entirely aware that she hadn't paid them a visit since she began working at Malfoy Inc. He was right, of course. She'd never taken more than a day or two off here and there, and she'd been with Malfoy for three years now. It was her own fault really. She'd always had the tendency to micro-manage.

But, she decided indignantly, Malfoy was in no position to judge _her_ work-life balance. Especially when he happened to be the unsurpassable definition of a workaholic.

"I don't like to take too much time off," she said in a curt voice she hoped would end the conversation.

Malfoy only looked amused, the sod.

"I wouldn't have minded," he said. "You are entitled to holiday, after all."

She certainly regretted it now. Maybe more time away from him over the past few years would have stopped him from driving her crazy.

Not long now, she thought again—and this time felt a pang at the thought. Where on earth had that come from?

"Well," she said awkwardly. "It's too late now."

Malfoy hesitated before he replied, like for a moment he'd forgotten she was leaving.

"Yes," he said slowly. "I suppose it is."

There was something in his voice. Something that made Hermione's stomach flip. She held her breath, suddenly and unfathomably hopeful.

"You—" he began haltingly.

They'd stopped walking. Right in the middle of the pavement. A couple of people grumbled and cursed as they were forced to step around them, but Hermione paid them no mind. She barely even heard them.

Her heart was thumping far too loudly in her chest.

"Yes?" she whispered unsteadily. His mouth opened, like he might reply, like he might ask her to stay—not that she would, of course, but it would be nice to hear him say it, to know he _cared_... but then he simply shook his head and started forward.

And just like that, something inside her snapped.

"Is that it then?" she called after him, not even bothering to disguise the resentment in her voice.

He stopped, a few steps ahead of her, and turned.

"Is that what?" he asked. His eyes searched her face almost bemusedly, and disappointment clenched in her gut.

He was oblivious. As always.

Her mouth twisted bitterly.

"You're just going to... let me go?"

Comprehension passed over his face, like the shadow of a storm cloud. His whole posture changed as he folded his arms across his chest, body curving into an insouciant slouch.

"What do you want me to do, Granger?" he asked coolly. It was a dangerous sign, that tone of his, but Hermione couldn't back down now.

She set her jaw, defiant.

"You could make me an offer."

One of those perfect, pale eyebrows lifted, but otherwise his expression remained the same.

Calm. Cold. Disinterested. The combination made her blood boil.

"Why would I?" he asked with a shrug. "You've already made up your mind."

"That's not the point," she spat, but he cut her off.

"Isn't it?" he asked blandly. "Because I thought you genuinely wanted to leave me. Or did I get it wrong and this is actually some manipulative ploy to secure a higher salary?"

She gasped, outraged.

"You—you," she was so angry she could barely get her words out. "How _dare_ you. I would _never_..."

Again, he cut her short, closing the space between them in two strides. Finally, his anger seemed to match her own, but she stood her ground as he towered over her, flinty eyes glittering with fury.

"You can't have it both ways, Granger," he said dangerously. "Either you're leaving or you're not. I won't beg you to stay."

"But you haven't even asked me!" she cried. "I have put _everything_ into this job. You have no idea what I've given up for you, and you haven't even asked me to consider changing my mind."

It was getting really hard to speak around the lump rapidly forming in her throat, and she took a harsh breath.

"I don't want you to beg, Malfoy," she said, grimacing as her voice cracked on his name. "I just want some acknowledgement for what I've done. I just want to know that it matters. To the company." She swallowed. "To you."

He made a sound of frustration.

"But I told you -"

She turned her head away from him to look out over the water.

"I know," she said. "But that's not what I meant."

He was silent for a long time, but she could feel him watching her.

It was quieter this end of the harbour, away from the restaurants and bars. A gentle breeze drifted across the waves, bringing with it the faintest strains of cheerful music and laughter, incongruous with the heavy weight pressing down on her chest.

Her roving eyes found the source—a sleek white boat bobbing lazily at the mouth of the quay. There seemed to be some sort of gathering going on on-board. The canopy above the deck was strung with fairy lights, and she could just make out a few couples leant up against the railings.

She stared at them so hard her vision blurred.

She wished he would speak. She thought she might go insane if he didn't say something soon. Anything. He could fire her, here, on the spot, and she would probably be relieved.

A tortuous minute or two later, he sighed.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," he said quietly. "But I won't ask you to stay."

Her shoulders slumped. She should have known he was too proud to admit he cared. Or maybe he truly didn't. Either way, she needed to leave, because that lump in her throat was starting to make it difficult to breathe. She straightened, gathering everything she had to escape with what was left of her dignity.

She would return to the hotel, she decided; she would get through tomorrow, then on Monday she would hand in her notice, Ministry job or no.

And it would all be over.

"Okay," she said, lifting her chin, but carefully avoiding catching his gaze. "Now, if you'll excuse me..."

She made to move past him, but he reached out and caught hold of her wrist. She couldn't help it; the sudden touch of warm skin made her breath hitch.

"Damn it, Granger," he said, exasperation in his voice. "You don't think that means I _want_ you to leave."

She stared back at him. Was he kidding?!

"Well, _yes_ ," she said. "What else could it mean?"

Malfoy made a noise almost like a growl.

"Do you have any idea what you've done to me, you bloody woman?"

When all she did was gawp, he released her wrist and shoved his hands deep into his trouser pockets.

"I won't ask you to stay," he explained grumpily. "Not because I don't want you to, but because working for me is clearly making you unhappy. And as much as you make me want to wring your neck—and believe me, Hermione, I quite often want to wring your neck—I don't want you to be unhappy... I—"

He raked an agitated hand through his hair, as he turned abruptly away from her to glower out over the water.

"I don't want you to be unhappy," he repeated with apparent difficulty. "I want—I want you to—"

That lock of hair, the single strand she'd so desperately wanted to touch, fell forward across his eyes once more.

Hermione stared at it dazedly.

Standing here on the water's edge, beneath the night's inky blue sky and the stars strewn like confetti, she wasn't entirely sure she wasn't dreaming.

But, she realised, there was one thing she was sure about. She was sure she wanted Malfoy to finish his sentence.

_She wanted to know what he wanted._

She took a shaky breath.

"You—you want me to what?"

Malfoy looked like he'd rather swallow glass than continue, but he cleared his throat nonetheless.

"I want—"

He'd turned back towards her slightly, and Hermione couldn't help it; she stepped closer, until the heat of his body ghosted her skin.

"Yes?"

Her hand had crept up to touch his chest. He looked down at where her fingers rested on the warm leather, and the downward tilt of his chin brought their lips into near alignment.

His mouth was so close. Just an inch or two lower and...

"I want," he murmured again, his voice thick, dark and pooling in the depths of her stomach like melted chocolate. She was breathing too hard, and so was he. She could feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath her fingers. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her lips.

This was going to end so badly. She could feel it. She could feel it in the way her body pulsed with anticipation, the way every nerve end sparked like a live wire.

But she couldn't stop it. She didn't even want to.

"Malfoy," she whispered. "Tell me what you want."

Finally, his gaze flickered up to meet hers. His eyes were magnets, and she knew in that moment that this was inevitable. Had been inevitable from the start.

"I want you to be happy," he said simply.


	8. Chapter 8

Time seemed to hang on a thread as they simply stared at one another. Neither moving. Barely breathing.

Draco's gaze was dark, deep, almost fevered, and Hermione felt her heart thump hard in her chest. He seemed to be waiting for her to say something, and when she didn't—found she couldn't—he looked down, some unidentifiable emotion etched in his brow.

"Malfoy," she whispered, a question, a plea, but he didn't look at her. His head was bowed, so all she could see of his eyes were the long pale lashes, wasted on a man, resting against his cheek.

Her hand had moved, quite without her noticing, to join the other on his chest. The warmth of his body was distracting—he felt like a furnace beneath her fingers—and she found herself stroking him gently. His polo shirt was so soft, a delicious contradiction to the firmness of his muscles underneath, and she wondered absently what his skin would feel like, what it would be like to touch him _everywhere_...

She stilled, rigid with shock. What was _wrong_ with her? She'd never felt like this before, and she didn't know why, of all time, of all places, of all _people_ , she was feeling it now.

It was almost too bizarre to be true.

"I don't-" she whispered, floored. "I don't understand."

She hadn't meant to say it out loud, and she didn't really—her voice was barely a breath—but, close as he was, Malfoy heard. He jerked suddenly, dislodging her hands from his shirt front and taking a step backwards.

She blinked, arms dropping uselessly by her sides.

"Malfoy?"

His hand was in his hair again, pushing it back from his face as he stared down at her, incredulous. She blinked again.

"What?"

"Merlin, Granger," he said with no small amount of exasperation. "For someone so supposedly intelligent, you really are the most clueless woman I have ever met."

Supposedly! _Clueless_! Offended and a little hurt, she opened her mouth to argue. But then his gaze dropped to her parted lips, and it was suddenly hard to breathe.

There was something very wrong here. But she had no time to ponder, because he'd moved forward, closing the distance between them once more. Her first instinct was to back away, but she couldn't move; she was utterly paralysed, pinned by the heat in those liquid silver eyes.

"Do I really need to say it?" he asked in a low, tense voice. "Do I really need to spell it out?"

Did he? Her body seemed to know it, even if her mind hadn't quite caught up. She was trembling, skin tingling all over as his eyes, smouldering with frustration, urgently searched her face.

When she did nothing but stare at him, open mouthed, he let out a growl.

"I have wanted to snog you senseless for months, Granger," he said crossly. "Months! But I haven't. Because you work for me, and I didn't want to put you in a position that would make you feel uncomfortable."

He paused, exasperation subsiding into a wry, resigned sort of humour.

"And I promised myself I'd never tell you, but there it is."

Very slowly, he reached up to curl a finger in the rippling end of her hair.

"There it is," he repeated softly.

Hermione stared at him, speechless. The world seemed to have narrowed to them, to this moment, and she could hear nothing of the midnight street, see nothing of the city lights. Just him, and the sound of her blood pounding in her ears.

She wanted to kiss him too, she realised. Probably had for a long time; she was just too stubborn to admit it.

"You—you want to snog me?" she asked eventually.

His eyes raked heatedly over her body, lingering on the curve of her hip, the v of her neckline.

"And the rest."

She rolled her eyes a little at that, but she'd already shifted into him, moving until her breasts brushed the lapels of his jacket.

"You're shameless, you know that?" she said.

He gave her an obnoxious but somehow extremely sexy smirk.

"A lot of witches like..."

But he couldn't finish, because she'd caught hold of his jacket front and tugged his mouth roughly down to meet hers.

White-hot lightning exploded across her skin. There was no hesitation, no gentle tentativeness she usually expected from a first kiss; Draco took swift control, hands sliding heatedly across her hips to pull her body flush with his. His mouth was hot, insistent, but she held her own, matching him touch for touch, bite for bite, swipe for swipe.

She should have guessed it would feel so good. That they would be so good together. But she was still shocked at the force with which she wanted him. And it seemed he felt it too, because he lifted his mouth briefly from hers with a groan.

"Merlin, Granger," he murmured in throaty disbelief.

Even pressed up against him as she was, drowning in desire, she couldn't resist a quip.

" _Hermione_ Granger," she corrected. He rewarded her with a chuckle that shuddered deliciously through her body, and a sharp nip to her lip.

"Hermione," he murmured, sending dark sparks of pleasure up her spine. "Cheeky cow."

She might have smacked him for that, but he chose that moment to kiss her again, deep and dizzying, and she surrendered willingly. He tasted faintly of whisky, and he smelt of leather and apples and dark, rich wood. It was oddly familiar, so quintessentially Draco, and she clung to him, filling her senses with his touch, his taste, his smell.

_This_ is what she'd wanted, she realised giddily. When he was driving her crazy with his saucy jibes, his late night work calls, his utter inability to leave her alone and let her get on with her job, this was what she'd wanted all along.

The realisation made her head spin. Intense emotions—emotions she couldn't name, couldn't even begin to describe—were bubbling up inside her, as his heat, his mouth, his hands threatened to engulf her.

It was all so overwhelming that she broke the kiss, turning her face into his neck to catch her breath. He was breathing heavily too. She could feel his chest rising and falling rapidly against hers.

"So," she panted after a moment. "It was _me_ you were resisting."

He huffed out a laugh against her hairline.

"It's been you for a long time, Hermione, believe me."

His words, low and husky, sent a shiver across her skin, and she lifted her head to look at him. His cheeks were a little flushed, his lips damp and deliciously reddened by her kisses. From the way he was looking at her, she guessed she must look the same.

"We should go back to the hotel," she said. His eyes flooded black, then, in a flurry of movement, he was tucking her under his arm and fumbling inside his jacket.

"Wand," he said, when she gave him a questioning look. "To get back to the hotel."

"Wait, we can't just Disapparate here," she said, glancing around and, in a sudden, terrible moment of clarity, remembering exactly where she was.

Standing on the street. Snogging her boss.

Her _boss_.

A flush swept through her as she realised their not so surreptitious make-out session had, in fact, attracted a small crowd of onlookers: a group of inebriated men on the other side the street. They were laughing, whistling encouragingly, and seeing her look their way, amplified their approval with a choice selection of lewd gestures.

"Oh no," she moaned, burying her face in Malfoy's chest. He'd stopped rooting around in his jacket by now, and instead, gave her a reassuring squeeze. He turned her slightly, almost shielding her from the group with his body as he called across the road.

"Alright, alright, you've had your fun," he said, all dry condescension, and she could well imagine the sneer that matched that particular tone of voice. "Now move along."

Miraculously, they did so, still laughing and whooping but getting further and further away. Hermione didn't move though, even when it was clear they'd gone. Malfoy had her wrapped in both his arms. He felt strong and warm and masculine, and frankly, she wasn't quite brave enough to meet his gaze yet.

Her body was tingling, burning up, desperate for more, but cold reality was quickly seeping into her hot, sexy haze.

"This is a really bad idea, isn't it?" she said, her voice muffled against his jacket.

He sighed, breath fluttering in her hair.

"I think so."

"We probably _should_ go back to the hotel," she said reluctantly.

"We probably should," he agreed.

Neither of them moved.

Hermione rubbed her finger gently against his collarbone. Could it really hurt? Just one night...

No. There were hundreds of reasons this couldn't go any further. Millions, in fact. It was just so hard to think of them when she was pressed this close to him, the steady thump of his heartbeat reverberating in her ear.

"We drank quite a lot this evening," she managed finally.

Malfoy shifted her in his arms, but he didn't let go.

"We did," he said.

Hermione racked her brains for more.

"We're both tired," she said. "It's been a busy day."

His hand was tracing a slow, tantalising pattern on her hip.

"It has."

"We have an early start tomorrow."

"We do."

"And uh—meetings. Lots of them."

His lips had found the way to her forehead and were making their way languidly along her hairline. She lifted her head back and away.

"You're really not helping," she said accusingly.

His mouth quirked, looking a lot like he was trying not to laugh.

"I'm not sure it's in my best interests to help," he said. She snorted and, although she really didn't want to, pulled at the hands he had wrapped around her waist.

To her surprise, he tugged her in once more for a swift, bruising kiss. Despite her best intentions, she responded immediately and embarrassingly eagerly, opening her mouth to him and moaning softly as one strong hand lifted to cradle the back of her head and his fingers pushed through her hair.

She never wanted it to end, but end it did—and too soon, when Malfoy lifted his head and swore under his breath. Her eyes flickered open to find him looking down at her with a tortured expression.

"You're right," he muttered, and although Hermione usually enjoyed those words coming from him, now they just made her heart deflate.

It deflated even more when he let go of her and took a step away. She felt cold all over without the heat of his body against hers.

"I usually am," she said soberly. She was hoping he might smile at that, but his eyes were serious, and she could feel the regret rolling off him in waves.

It hurt more than it should.

"I'm sorry," he said. "That was entirely inappropriate of me."

She swallowed.

"It's fine," she said. "It was just a kiss."

Was it though? The knot in her stomach said otherwise.

"It was unprofessional," he said quietly.

It was getting really difficult for Hermione to speak without her voice wobbling; she felt a bit like she might cry, although she didn't know why.

"It was," she said, forcing herself to speak lightly and not quite sure she was pulling it off. "But it's late, we're both tired, and we probably had a bit too much to drink. These things happen."

"But they shouldn't," he said. "I really can't begin to tell you how sorry I am."

"Don't be," she said. "I was as willing a participant as you."

Damn. She really shouldn't have said that. It only reminded her how willing. And apparently it reminded Malfoy too.

Something hot flashed in his gaze.

"You were," he said in that low voice that made her shiver.

This was no good. She was going to have to snog him again if he kept talking to her like that.

She looked down, taking a moment to compose herself, and saw her jacket on the ground between them. She hadn't even noticed it fall from her hand, couldn't even recall the moment she'd let it go, she'd been that far gone.

She averted her gaze. The crisp professional suit jacket, lying so crumpled on the ground, only reminded her how inappropriately—how wantonly—she'd behaved.

She took a fortifying breath. She could do this. She could get back to the hotel with Malfoy at her side. Once she was back at the hotel, she could escape into her room. And tomorrow... Well, she'd deal with tomorrow when it came.

She bent and picked up the offending garment, tucking it determinedly over her arm.

"Come on," she said. "We really should get back."

* * *

Neither of them said a word as they walked the short distance to the hotel.

Hermione's mind—and hormones—were all over the place. She could barely believe what had just happened. But of course she had to. She could still feel his mouth on hers, his fingers scorching through the flimsy fabric of her blouse. And Merlin help her, she'd been the one to instigate it!

Ginny was going to have her guts for garters.

It didn't help that she was so intensely conscious of him beside her. Of his height. The breadth of his shoulders. The warmth of his body. She wondered if he was just as acutely aware of her. He didn't look at her once, the whole way back, but his body was tense, tightly wound like the string of a bow.

She still wanted him. She couldn't believe it, but she did.

It didn't take long to reach the small open square beside the opera house. They crossed it, then the road. Just outside the blue-edged door though, Malfoy paused, eyes sweeping swiftly over her from head to toe.

"Dammit," he cursed softly.

"What?"

"You look thoroughly debauched," he said, reaching over to tuck a particularly rebellious curl behind her ear. His hand lingered, warm against the skin of her cheek. Hermione's stomach flipped as their eyes met and the air around them seem to crackle.

She moved instinctively towards him, but he dropped his hand, gaze falling with it.

"Come on," he said resignedly. "Let's go inside."

Luckily, the foyer was empty. Hermione suspected the old hotel manager had been expecting them, so had discreetly removed himself from the room to give them privacy. Not that she apparently needed it, considering how shamelessly she'd been snogging Malfoy at the harbour.

The memory sent an unexpected thrill up her spine, but she shook it off. Just how brazen was she?

They made their way up the grand staircase in the silence, moving quietly down the corridor until they reached Malfoy's room. For a brief heart-thumping moment, she thought he might kiss her again—the stiffness in his body, the fire in his gaze told her he wanted to—but he only murmured goodnight and disappeared inside.

She trudged down the hall to her own room in a bit of a daze. She knew she should be relieved that they'd both had the forethought and self-control to end it all before it truly began, but she just felt hollow. She had so desperately wanted him to kiss her again, to wrap her in his arms, to push her up against the wall and touch her everywhere, that when he didn't, it felt like a terrible loss.

She let herself into the room and closed the door behind her. Safe, for now anyway, she collapsed back against it, feeling all the energy seep from her body like a deflated balloon.

Kissing Malfoy had violated every ethical principle she'd ever possessed. He was her boss. She was his employee. She still needed his letter of recommendation.

Oh Godric, her letter of recommendation.

There had to be rules for that, didn't there? The Ministry would hardly accept a recommendation from someone romantically involved. What if the events of this evening—this crazy, terrifying, magical evening—had jeopardised her chances of getting the job she so desperately wanted at the Ministry?

Her head slumped back against the door as she realised the gravity of what they had done.

She had to be insane. Or drunk. Or both. That was really the only explanation.

She was just working up the motivation to peel herself from the door and get ready for bed, when a sudden knock on the door behind her made her jump.

She froze. She knew who it was—who else could it be?—and her heart stuttered in anticipation.

The knock sounded again, quiet but unmistakably urgent.

Something that felt very suspiciously like hope flared in her chest, but she squashed it, forcing herself upright to open the door.

Draco stood in the hallway. His hair was a mess, like he'd been running his hands through it, and he was breathless, panting. She didn't know why. It wasn't exactly a long walk between their rooms.

But then she saw the look in his eye, wild and wanting, and she, too, felt like she'd suddenly been winded.

Time seemed suspended as they stared at one another in the darkened hallway, the only sound their own breathing, the beat of Hermione's heart.

Then Malfoy cleared his throat.

"I know we decided not to," he said roughly. "And I promise you, Hermione, if you tell me no, I'll go back to my room and I'll never bother you again." His voice lowered and thickened, until she could feel it, hot and delicious, in every crevice of her body. "But I just can't talk myself out of it."

And that was it; Hermione was lost. She reached for his wrist and tugged him inside.

Ethics were overrated anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! The next chapter picks up the morning after, and should hopefully be uploaded shortly.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to apologise in advance for this... Remember this story has a happy ending!

As soon as Hermione woke up, before she'd even opened her eyes, she knew something was different. Instead of waking under cool, crisp hotel sheets as she had yesterday morning, she was tangled with a very warm, very naked sleeping man.

Draco, to be exact.

She edged her eyelids open and peeked through her lashes. She'd been sleeping almost on top of him so the first thing she saw was his chest, pale and beautiful like the rest of him. Her cheek was pressed against his bare skin, as was, it seemed, the rest of her, and his arm was draped around her middle, keeping her curled against his side. It was warm and rather heavy, but she didn't feel inclined to wriggle away.

His chest was rising and falling quite steadily beneath her cheek, so she guessed he was still asleep. Struck with curiosity and a touch of secret triumph, she lifted her head to look at him. His eyes were closed, translucent lashes resting on his cheek, and his expression was relaxed, unguarded in a way she so rarely witnessed.

Her gaze drifted slowly across his face, as she made the most of the opportunity to scrutinise him quite openly. She settled finally on his mouth—that full lower curve, the perfect bow above—the same mouth that had explored her body so thoroughly in this very bed.

Well... she looked into the other room, eyes resting first on the dishevelled dining table, then on the wall just inside the bedroom, and finally, on a fairly innocuous looking patch of carpet near the bed.

There, there and there too, she remembered with shocking glee.

"Where's your bloody bed, Granger?" he'd growled as he walked them back across the expansive living room. She'd been wrapped around him at this point, yanking at his clothes, mouthing at his throat.

"In the bloody _bedroom_ ," she'd shot back, to which he responded with a smothered groan and a pinch on her bum.

He'd walked them into the wall—twice!—and been distracted several times by a variety of proximate surfaces before they made it to the bed, where she'd teased him about his skills of seduction, and where, much much later, she'd been forced to take it back.

Laughing, gasping, she'd taken it all back.

And now, as the early morning sunshine spilled through the open drapes, revealing bare skin and twisted sheets, she found she didn't regret it.

She'd just slept with her boss. She'd just slept with _Draco Malfoy_. And she didn't regret it. Not a single moment.

Maybe the regret would come later, she mused. When he opened his eyes and she had to figure out what to say. Or when they had to sit next to each other in Gouin's stuffy meeting room, knees touching, frustration building. Or on Monday, when he would call her into his office for some reason or another and she'd have to listen to him talking to her and try very hard not to remember the feel of his mouth on her inner thigh...

She smoothed a hand across his flat belly.

No. For now, she would enjoy this. Enjoy him. Enjoy a side of herself she'd denied for a long time. Intent on relaxing a little while longer, she snuggled back down beneath the covers, resting her cheek on his chest.

But, a pragmatic woman at heart, she realised she couldn't stay in bed forever—and her body stubbornly refused to settle. Sex or no, she and Malfoy were in Marseille for a reason, and they had to meet with that reason at nine o'clock this morning.

She propped herself up on his chest once more, pausing as his arm tightened briefly around her waist. But his eyelids didn't so much as flutter, and confident he hadn't been disturbed, Hermione leant over him to look at the small clock on the bedside table.

It was nearly quarter past seven. Unfortunately far too late to go back to sleep.

She lingered for a minute more, watching the steady progress of the clock hand as she galvanised herself to leave the warmth of bed. But there was no question she needed to get up. She desperately needed to take a shower—she was pretty sure her hair was a solid mass standing straight up on her head, it was that sweaty—and it was probably a good idea to order them some breakfast. If yesterday was anything to go by, today would be another long, hard day of heated negotiations.

She glanced back down at Malfoy, still slumbering below her. He looked so peaceful, the usual crease between his brows erased entirely by sleep (and, she hoped, the night with her), that she didn't want to wake him just yet. Besides, waking him up would mean talking about last night, and she wasn't entirely sure she could manage that stark naked and pressed up against him.

But how to untangle their limbs without startling him awake?

Gently, she nudged his arm from around her waist and pulled away. Their hot, damp skin clung where it had been pressed together, and her body felt cold, bereft, as she edged quietly across the mattress and out of bed.

She showered and dressed quickly, spelling her hair dry and wrestling it back into a bun. She stared dismally at her reflection in the mirror as most of it sprang straight back out—she'd so wanted to look slick and professional when she and Malfoy finally talked this out—but since even the strongest of fixing charms had never worked for her, it would have to do.

She returned to the bedroom, but Malfoy was still dead to the world. Her escape from bed had left the covers down around his waist, and she paused a moment to admire his naked torso. She'd explored him with her mouth and fingers in the dark, discovered the long whip-like scars across his chest from the curse Harry cast so long ago, but the pale morning sunlight sent them into sharp relief.

It didn't matter. Even scarred, he was beautiful.

She observed a moment more, then shook her head and walked away. There was no use getting sappy, she told herself sharply. Draco had yet to wake up, and Hermione had no idea how he would react to finding himself in her bed—to remembering what had taken place there just a few hours ago. There was, she realised bleakly, a very good chance he'd be appalled.

The thought made her feel a bit queasy, and she reached out to brace a hand on the back of the sofa.

Okay, _there's_ the regret, she thought. Merlin help her, what had she done?

Knowing she needed a distraction, she began picking up the clothes she and Malfoy had left strewn about the suite. His jacket by the door, her blouse under the coffee table... then into the bedroom, where she found her skirt hooked over the bed frame and her bra wrapped around the bedside lamp. Heaven knows where her knickers were.

She put her own crumpled clothes away in her suitcase, thinking that, since they would be leaving tonight, she might as well get a head start on her packing, then began folding Malfoy's over the chair by the dressing table.

"Whoops," she murmured as his jacket slipped from her grasp to the floor. When she picked it up, she saw a few scrunched up pieces of parchment had fallen from the pocket. She picked them up too, automatically smoothing out the creases and shuffling them together.

She recognised Malfoy's scrawled handwriting immediately—it was the only untidy thing about him—but there was no company letterhead, so she assumed they must be personal notes. She went to fold them right back up, but then her name on the first parchment caught her attention.

Curiosity got the better of her, and, after a furtive glance towards the bed, she smoothed it back out.

It was addressed to a wizard from the Ministry, one of the three officials she'd met during her interview last week. For a moment, she thought the letter might be her recommendation, or at least a draft of it, but then she read on, and her heart plummeted.

She had long known Draco was one of the Ministry's key corporate benefactors—he claimed PR reasons; she'd always suspected it was more a form of personal atonement—but had never known exactly to whom or where his money went.

But Malfoy clearly did. And now he was threatening to withdraw that funding from this particular wizard's pet project, unless—and here, Hermione froze in shock—unless the man voted not to hire her.

_How many people will lose their jobs?_ the note wondered mildly. _How quickly will you?_

Numbly, Hermione flipped to the second parchment. This one was to another Ministry official, the only witch on the interview panel, whose department had apparently been struggling to find funding for a new welfare programme. Her eyes blurred at the figure Malfoy was offering so... so long as the woman voted not to hire her.

The third note was even worse. Hermione choked in dismay as her lover of the night before calmly informed the final wizard on the panel that he was entirely aware of his sordid extra-marital affair, had the photographs to prove it and would sell them to Rita Skeeter, unless—Godric, she could predict it— _the man voted not to hire her_.

She stood and stared, dazed, at the parchment until the words swam before her eyes. There had to be some mistake. Malfoy wouldn't be so... so callous.

It was with a sinking heart that Hermione realised he would. She had witnessed his ruthlessness in business before. Despite a pretty poor paternal example and some worrying teenage moments, Draco hadn't grown into cruel man. But he was entirely single-minded in his devotion to his company, and he defended it, along with the people that worked for him, without a modicum of mercy.

And now, to Hermione, it was all so terribly crystal clear. She was nothing but business to him. Could never be anything _but_ business to him. No matter how hard she'd worked for him. No matter what they shared last night.

And he was prepared to sabotage her—to destroy her chances at the Ministry—so she could never leave.

She read the notes once more, quivering with growing outrage. He had lied to her face, and she had believed him. She had kissed him too. Had that been the plan? To seduce her, to distract her, while he pulled the strings in the background?

She looked up at him, sleeping blissfully, entirely oblivious to the anger trickling down her spine like drops of icy water. She had so wanted to believe he had changed. That he could put others before himself. But he hadn't. He couldn't.

And she... well, she was just a silly, trusting little fool who poured her heart and mind and soul into everything she did, and really should have learnt by now that some people just didn't deserve it.

Well, no more. Malfoy had taken advantage of her for the last time.

She packed her holdall swiftly, silently, hands shaking with suppressed adrenaline. She wanted to slam it around, to throw things, to scream and rage, but she forced herself to remain quiet, biting her tongue as she bundled clothes and gathered toiletries. Luckily, there wasn't much to tidy away; she had never been so grateful for her depressing ability to only pack what she needed.

Malfoy was still asleep when she left the room—she double checked, _triple_ checked—but she felt on edge as she hurried down to the lobby. She was still shaking, but there didn't seem much she could do about it.

Monsieur Dimont was at the front desk, looking remarkably refined for such an early hour. Today's velvet jacket was a deep plum colour, with a bow tie to match. He looked up with a warm smile as she clattered down the steps, but on seeing her, his expression grew alarmed.

"Madame?" he asked with concern. "Is everyzing all right?"

She dropped her holdall to the shiny marble floor.

"No," she said. "I need to go home."

Monsieur Dimont looked startled.

"Madame?"

"I need to go home," she repeated, and her voice was brittle, like it might snap. "Please can you arrange a lift to the airport?"

"Your portkey is scheduled for tonight," he began, but faltered as her face crumpled. "Madame?"

"I know," she swallowed, hard. "I- I'm sorry. But I can't wait. I need to leave now."

He reached for the telephone, a wonderfully ornate contraption that jangled as he dialled.

"Certainly, Madame. I will send for a car."

Hermione nearly melted with relief. It was all she could do to hold herself together—which she did, rigidly and only just. She pressed her lips together, whole body tense as she fought the sudden surge of emotion. She _wouldn't_ cry. Not over Malfoy. Her pride wouldn't allow it.

Her internal battle must have been written transparently across her face, because the kindly hotel manager paused a moment to examine her, a troubled crease in his brow.

"I trust everyzing is okay at home?" he asked concernedly.

His obvious care for her lodged in her throat, and she nodded, unable to speak.

"And 'ow about Monsieur Draco," he asked softly. "Is everyzing okay with him?"

She blinked rapidly, feeling herself well up. _Don't cry_ , she told herself fiercely. _Don't you dare cry_.

"No," she said. But Monsieur Dimont was entirely too perceptive. He shook his head sadly.

"What he has done, eh," he said, lifting the phone to his ear. "Is it possible to forgive?"

Hermione thought back to the harbour, when Draco had looked down at her with such warmth, such desire, and told her that he'd wanted her to be happy. She thought of that first kiss, fierce and fast, then later in her hotel room, hungry but unhurried, almost tender. Hands and tongues and lips everywhere.

And then she thought of those three letters—the threat, the bribe and the blackmail—and she couldn't reconcile the man who had kissed her so deeply with the man who'd destroyed her. She didn't believe she ever would.

"No," she said. "I don't think it is."

* * *

Dimont apparently saw the need for a swift getaway, because the car took mere minutes to arrive. The drive to the airport was short but took Hermione along the edge of the Vieux Port. The sight of it—the restaurants and bars, now dark and shut up, the boats drifting listlessly in the bay—flooded her mind with memories of the night before. It made her heart clench painfully in her chest, and she was glad when they left the white sails and sparkling water far behind.

The taxi dropped her at the airport just in time to book herself on the next flight to London. The price was near extortionate, and she wasn't sure Malfoy would reimburse her, but she handed the woman her Muggle debit card with only the slightest hesitation. She felt a bit sick though as she tapped in her pin. It was a lot of money for someone who'd possibly just thrown her job away.

She hurried through baggage and into the queue for security, practically itching with urgency. It was still early, but the airport was busy and there was no way in hell she was missing that plane.

Malfoy would be awake by now. He'd see she wasn't there. He'd see she'd emptied the room. He'd see the crumpled parchment pieces laid out accusingly on the dressing table.

He'd guess where she'd gone. If not, he'd soon find out from Monsieur Dimont. It would be too awful if he came after her; she kept glancing, paranoid, over her shoulder as she queued to make sure he hadn't.

Getting through the strict security checks kept her mind mostly distracted, but once she was the other side, there was nothing to do but wait. She found a secluded corner and stood alone, eyes fixed on the neon departure board as she counted down the minutes. The world bustled around her—laughing holidaymakers, focused businessmen and the worst, canoodling couples—but the sounds were muted somehow, as if she were underwater.

The moment her gate opened, she was off—the first in the queue, the first on the plane. She didn't relax until the doors were closed and the plane was taxiing to the runway. Tilting her head back against the seat, she let her damp eyes flicker shut.

She was safe. She'd escaped. Malfoy hadn't come after her, and if he had, well he'd missed her.

She wondered what he'd thought when he'd woken up to an empty bed, an empty room. She felt a twinge of guilt that she'd left him no note, but she pushed it away.

He'd left her three, she thought bitterly.

Her seat was by the window, and she watched, fixedly, as the streets and buildings of Marseille grew smaller and smaller below her. It was rather therapeutic actually, like she was leaving all her problems behind. Of course, in reality, the worst was yet to come—Monday morning and Malfoy's return loomed grimly on the horizon—but it was nice, just for a moment, to pretend her personal and professional life hadn't just exploded into a raging ball of flames.

How could she have been so stupid? She was supposed to be brilliant, dammit. But it seemed even the brightest witches had their weaknesses, and hers came in the devastating combination of silver eyes, sarcasm and hair the colour of starlight.

She tried to sleep some during the flight, but the plane was noisy, the people around her more so, and she couldn't work out how to switch off the endless stream of self-accusations swirling around her mind like a snowstorm. It all seemed to build up in the enclosed space, suffocating her to the point of near hyperventilation, and she was glad when they finally landed at Heathrow. Even if it was raining buckets.

She trailed forlornly through customs and passport control. There was no one coming to meet her, so she went straight outside to find a taxi. She had no doubt she'd end up severely splinched if she attempted to Apparate anywhere in her current state.

Now, settled in the back of a roomy black cab, she stared dismally through the misted window at the grey sky and sea of dark umbrellas. Her hair and coat were damp from the rain, and she could feel it on her neck and seeping up her cuffs.

The journey was uncomfortably long, even though by now it was mid-morning and the morning rush hour was long over, but eventually the taxi pulled up outside Grimmauld Place. Hermione hadn't been able to face going home to an empty house. She needed a hug and a good cry, and was desperately hoping Ginny would be around to give her that. She should be; she didn't work on a Friday.

Hermione stumbled up the steps and knocked on the door. For a long time, all was quiet. Hermione felt tears prick hotly in her eyes. She was soaked to the skin now, shivering on the doorstep, certain she'd never been more miserable in her entire life—and that was saying something, considering she'd spent months in a tent with two tortured adolescent boys. She banged again, more loudly this time, and then thankfully, blessedly, she heard the echo of movement deep within the old house.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," Ginny called, voice muffled by the heavy door. A moment later, Hermione heard the latch turn, and then the door swung open.

"Hermione!" Ginny said, taking in her bedraggled appearance with wide, startled eyes. "Merlin, Hermione, what's the matter?"

Hermione opened her mouth to tell her, but the sight of her friend, her obvious care and concern, and the expectation of the comforting hug soon to follow proved all too much.

She burst into tears.


	10. Chapter 10

"Hermione!" Ginny said, alarmed. She tugged her over the threshold, out of the rain. "What are you doing here? Are you okay?"

Hermione shook her head, but she was crying too hard to get the words out. Ginny gave her a little anxious shake.

"What's the matter?" she asked urgently. "Hermione, are you hurt?"

Hermione could tell she was really scaring her, so she made an effort to speak.

"I'm fine," she sobbed. "I'm fi-i-ine."

"Oh honey, you're clearly not," Ginny said. She gave Hermione's arms a comforting squeeze, then began untangling her from her sodden coat. "What happened?"

Oh Merlin, could she say it out loud? Could she admit how stupid she'd been? She covered her face with her hands, cheeks hot and wet beneath her fingers.

"It was Malfoy," she whispered.

Colour flooded Ginny's face.

" _Malfoy_ ," she ground out. "What did the son of a bitch do now?"

Oh god. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut in humiliation. A few more tears leaked down her cheeks.

"I—I slep," she choked on the word. "I—we… well, we… _you know_."

Silence.

After a moment, she peeked hesitantly through her fingers. She had hoped Ginny would fill in the blanks herself, but no such luck. The redhead was staring at her, eyebrows furrowed in total and utter incomprehension. It was, Hermione would reflect later, an expression she was far more used to seeing on Ron.

"We—we…" She made a couple of gestures that she hoped would get the point across, but goddammit if Ginny wasn't the densest woman in the world. "We… well… last night, I…"

No. She couldn't say it. Ginny would just have to never know.

Her bottom lip trembled.

"Oh Hermione," Ginny said and pulled her into a tight hug. Hermione sank into her gratefully, burying her face in her shoulder as she wept. "He didn't hurt you, did he?" she asked, suddenly worried.

"J-just my p-pride," Hermione sniffed, voice muffled in a cascade of red hair.

And maybe her heart, she thought woefully. Just a little.

Ginny hugged her for a moment more, then pulled away.

"It looks a little more than that, sweetie. What happened?" When all Hermione did was snivel helplessly, she shook her head. "I'm not going to drop it," she said sternly. "You came here to tell me, so you might as well do it. What happened with Malfoy?"

Oh sod it.

"I slept with hi-i-im!" Hermione wailed, then dissolved into a fresh round of sobs. Big, fat, ugly sobs that racked through her whole body.

Considering she'd spent the entire journey to Grimmauld Place dreading Ginny's response, she barely noticed as her friend clucked in a distinctly Molly fashion, took hold of her arm and began to steer her gently towards the living room.

"Harry!" she hollered up the stairs as they passed. "Harry, can you come down?"

That shocked Hermione into awareness.

"H-Harry's home?" she hiccupped, tears streaking down her face. "Why is Harry home?"

"We've got our first appointment at St Mungo's today," Ginny said, patting her belly. "For the baby."

"Oh!" Hermione stopped, stricken, in the hallway. She hadn't even considered Ginny would have plans.

"Don't be ridiculous." Ginny guessed she was about to turn around and made a grab for her. "We've got plenty of time. Now you're going to come into the lounge and Harry is going to make us a cup of tea and you're going to tell me all about it."

She made a wordless sound of sympathy as Hermione burst into tears once more.

Harry!" she yelled again, nudging her through the door into the front room. "Harry!"

Despite the near opaque wall of tears, Hermione somehow found her way to the sofa, where she sat and tried to calm herself down. Easier said than done, she realised soon enough. Her chest had gone into spasms.

Ginny bellowed her husband's name once more, until an answering thud upstairs had her satisfied he was on his way. Then she plonked herself down on the settee beside Hermione and regarded her with solemn eyes.

"Was he really that awful?" she asked.

Hermione lifted her head to stare at her, eyes wet and wide.

"What?"

"Well, I'd heard Malfoy was pretty good in bed," Ginny said baldly. "But considering you're now sobbing on my sofa, I'd guess he didn't quite live up to the hype."

"He—he…" Hermione stammered, entirely too shocked to cry. Which, if she were to be honest, was probably Ginny's intention.

"Oh Hermione." Ginny took her hands in both of hers and gave them a squeeze. "I know you don't do this kind of thing, but it's not the end of the world. Really it isn't. You spend a lot of time with him—and he's an attractive man, if a bit of an arse. It was bound to happen eventually."

"Bound to happen eventually?" Hermione echoed faintly.

"Yes," Ginny said firmly. "Tell her," she said as Harry appeared in the doorway. "Tell her we were all expecting her to have sex with Draco eventually."

Harry nearly choked. Since he wasn't drinking anything, Hermione could only presume it was on his own saliva.

"You—you," he spluttered, "you did _what_ with the ferret?"

Mortified, Hermione covered her face with a cushion.

"She had sex with him," Ginny said, and she couldn't see, but Hermione was sure she was glaring at Harry. "And now she's very upset about it, and desperately needs a cup of tea."

The last bit was rather pointed. Harry grumbled a bit, but withdrew; Hermione heard him tramp down the hall to the kitchen.

"And bring us some biscuits!" his charming wife hollered after him. "I'm training him for when I'm a beached whale stuck on the sofa," she explained to Hermione, who smiled weakly into the cushion but otherwise didn't lift her head. Harry's reaction had been humiliating—what she had truly dreaded the whole way here—and her cheeks were so hot she thought she might explode.

"You really thought I'd end up sleeping with Malfoy all along?" she mumbled after a moment.

"Not really," Ginny admitted, wrapping an arm around her. "To be honest, when you took the job, I rather thought you'd end up killing him."

Hermione lifted her head from the pillow with a scowl.

"I still might," she said malevolently.

Ginny laughed a little at her expression. Or perhaps it was at the mascara smudges—the cushion was covered.

"Honestly, sweetie," she said, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. "It's not the end of the world. There are worse wizards to wake up in bed with."

Hermione blinked rapidly as she welled up once more. Merlin, she needed a chocolate bourbon.

"You don't understand," she said pitifully. "He _lied_ to me."

And that's when it all spilled out—the whole sorry story.

The interview at the Ministry last Friday. How she needed a letter of recommendation. How she'd trusted Draco to write it for her. Last night in the bar. Then the harbour—oh Godric, the _harbour_ —then the few lovely hours they'd spent in her hotel room (Harry came in with the tea and biscuits during a particularly descriptive sentence, and swiftly backed out, skin an alarming shade of green), and finally, the horrifying discovery of this morning.

"So I just packed my bags and left," Hermione finished tearfully. "Took the first flight back to London, then grabbed a taxi. And here I am."

Ginny didn't speak for a moment. Her expression was concerned, but there was something in her eyes, the slight hesitant twist of her mouth, that made Hermione feel defensive.

"What?" she sniffed. Ginny's face contorted in an expression she recognised as reluctance. "Ginny, what?"

"Well, I can't help think…" she began tentatively. A worried glance at her friend's tear-stained face and she started again. "I just wonder whether Malfoy really meant to send those letters. They were scrunched up in his pocket, after all—not strapped to an owl halfway to the Ministry."

"Of course he meant to send them!" Hermione said, indignant. "It's just the sort of thing he would do, the lying, selfish bastard."

When her so-called friend's face twisted again, she bristled.

Malfoy was clearly the guilty party here. She, Hermione, had been wronged— _betrayed_! Malfoy was cruel and arrogant and underhanded, and she had entirely expected Ginny to explode on her behalf. She had been counting on it!

Apparently sensing her frustration, Ginny made an effort to look conciliatory.

"Okay, perhaps he did," she said. "What did he say when you asked him?"

Hermione opened her mouth to snap again, then paused.

"Well, I didn't ask him."

"You didn't ask him?" Ginny echoed. "What did you tell him you were leaving for?"

Hermione flushed.

"I—I didn't. I didn't speak to him."

"You didn't speak to him? Did you leave a note?"

She swallowed and shook her head.

"So you left him asleep in bed without an explanation," Ginny said matter-of-factly. Shame burned in Hermione's cheeks. It sounded dreadful when she put it like that.

"I was upset…"

"Hermione, you left the country!"

Hermione stared at her in horror as she realised, for the first time this morning, exactly what she'd done to Draco.

She prided herself on being a fair, reasonable person, yet she'd jumped to such an appalling conclusion and she hadn't given Malfoy the slightest chance to defend himself. She'd slept with the man, for heaven's sake! And she'd left him in bed without a word.

And he was still her boss. The whole reason she was in Marseille in the first place was to support him in his appeasement of Benoît Gouin and his awful associates, and she'd walked out on him. Shirked her responsibilities. Let him down.

And then she'd left the country. She left him asleep in bed while she flew over the Channel.

Merlin help her, what had she done?

"I'm a horrible person!" she wailed, throwing herself into Ginny's arms once more.

She was certain she'd cried more this morning than in her entire adult life—and over _Malfoy_ of all people—but she found herself in tears once more. How she had any left, she had no clue, but apparently she did, because they were soaking hot, damp and tinged with mascara into her long-suffering friend's sweatshirt.

"I-I'm sorry," she hiccupped. "I'm such a mess."

Ginny, bless her heart, only hugged her more tightly.

"You're not," she assured her. "And you're not a horrible person either."

"I am!"

"Oh, honey, you're not. You made a mistake, but so did Malfoy. I think you both deserve the chance to defend yourselves, right?"

"Right," Hermione sniffed softly.

Ginny replied with another squeeze. They lapsed into silence as Hermione gradually calmed down and the tears slowly subsided.

"You like him, don't you?" Ginny asked after another sniffly minute.

"I think I might," Hermione admitted. "Even if he is a bit of an arse sometimes."

Ginny snorted, a hideous sound that made Hermione huff on a laugh. After a pause, Ginny asked tentatively, "Would you—would you want to date him?"

Hermione thought about it for a moment.

"I don't know," she said honestly.

The redhead pulled away, a wicked glint in her eye.

"Dear Merlin, please let me be there when you tell Ron you're dating _Malfoy_."

Hermione felt her heart sink.

"He'll go ballistic."

"He'll have a heart attack," Ginny said gleefully. "Or an aneurism. Or both!" She flopped back on the sofa, staring dreamily at the ceiling. "It's going to be awesome."

* * *

Hermione stayed at Ginny's a little while longer, before Harry risked a head round the door to remind his wife they had to be at the hospital soon. Ginny insisted on Apparating her home first.

"You're high on tea and chocolate bourbons," Ginny said when she protested, albeit half-heartedly. "You'll splinch yourself."

The argument was clearly flawed, but Hermione acquiesced nonetheless. Who was she to argue with the pregnant lady?

Harry gave her a hug before she left. He still looked a bit awkward, but then, he'd never been comfortable discussing Hermione's romantic relationships. Work, family, Crookshanks, he could handle. Anything past snogging, not so much.

"I hope everything works out okay," he said bravely. Hermione smiled and hugged him tightly back.

"Thanks. Let me know how it goes at the hospital, 'kay?"

"Of course." He slanted a good-humoured glance at Ginny. "If we ever get there."

She rolled her eyes.

"I'll be five minutes," she said, taking Hermione's arm in one hand and her wand in the other. "Got everything?"

Hermione nodded then, a moment later, felt that familiar pull behind her navel. They landed just inside the gate of her front garden, which Hermione had charmed to hide such arrivals from the prying eyes of her Muggle neighbours.

She'd just caught her balance when Ginny whipped round, almost pitching her headfirst into the hydrangeas.

"What the bloody hell are you doing here?" Ginny demanded as she recovered—just in time to see the younger woman stomp up the path.

"Who…?" Hermione turned too, and stopped, her heart leaping in her chest.

Because there, backed up against the front door, looking dishevelled, exhausted and increasingly alarmed as the youngest Weasley marched up the steps towards him, wand drawn, fiery hair flying… stood the man she'd thought she had the entire weekend to recover before she had to face.

Draco.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be the final one. As always, thanks for reading!


	11. Chapter 11

Their eyes met.

"Oh," Hermione said foolishly. "It's you."

Draco nodded, apparently as absurdly speechless as she was. He was a mess, she realised with some astonishment—tired-eyed, with blond hair sticking up all over the place and dressed in last night's rumpled clothes.

He was also, fortunately, as yet unharmed. For a moment, Hermione had thought Ginny might beat him to death with her wand, but she'd stopped just short and now stood on the steps between them, arms folded as she glanced expectantly between her friend and said friend's boss-turned-lover.

Silence, as Hermione did nothing but blink in stunned disbelief.

Malfoy was here, on her doorstep, when he should be in Marseille.

Her mind couldn't reconcile it.

 _Say something_ , Ginny mouthed, startling her out of her stupor. Hermione appreciated the reminder, although a great big cue card would have been considerably more useful. The sudden and rather bedraggled appearance of the man she'd spent the past hour bawling over had apparently made her incapable of any sort of coherent speech.

"What…" She shook her head, trying to focus. " _How_?"

He cleared his throat.

"You left," he said. "You left me."

This was evidently too much for Ginny. She flung out her wand hand.

"Of course she did, you great big oaf!" she cried. "You tried to sabotage her career!"

Malfoy's mouth dropped open.

"I didn't," he said, and Hermione sucked in a sharp breath, indignant—he _knew_ she'd found his letters to the Ministry, he knew what he'd done! But bless her heart, Ginny had her covered.

"What about those letters?" she demanded. "You were going to make it so the Ministry would never hire her!"

"I didn't—I _wouldn't_ …" His voice caught as he turned to Hermione, expression so intense it nearly took her breath away. "Granger, I promise you," he said. "I was never going to send those letters."

As she absorbed this, speechless, Ginny cast her a triumphant grin.

"See?" she said cheerfully. "I told you he wouldn't. Now, I'll leave you two crazy kids to sort this out. But"—and here she paused to fix Draco with a fierce glare—"if she _ever_ turns up on my doorstep in tears again, the esteemed Malfoy bloodline ends with you. Got it?"

He swallowed, but nodded once.

"Yep."

"I'm talking about hexing off your…"

"Got it," he said. "Definitely got it."

Ginny lowered her wand, which had somehow ended up dangerously near his throat.

"Good," she said. She shot one last warning look in his direction, then headed back down the path. "You okay?" she asked gently as she reached Hermione's side.

Hermione wasn't sure. Her stomach was churning at the thought of talking to Malfoy. But she knew Ginny would reschedule her appointment in a heartbeat if she thought Hermione needed her, and she didn't want that—so she gave her friend a nod and a slightly shaky smile, and lied.

"I'm fine."

Apparently convinced, Ginny gave her arm a quick, comforting squeeze, then Disapparated with a loud crack.

And she and Draco were left alone.

Unable to look at him, she squinted down the street. It seemed very quiet all of a sudden. There were no cars, no buses—even the rain had stopped, the sun peeking shyly from behind a cloud and making her garden glimmer spring fresh around her.

She only wished she'd taken the time at Ginny's to charm her coat dry—the damp collar was sticking, cold and uncomfortable, to the back of her neck.

The soggy material wasn't the only reason her skin prickled, however.

Malfoy was watching her. She could feel it.

She still couldn't believe he was here. She knew why—she had, after all, left him in bed and fled the country. But it was so _soon_. She'd thought she'd have until the evening, at least, when he would finish up his meetings, catch the scheduled portkey back to the office and perhaps march straight over. Really, she'd been hoping he wouldn't bother her until Monday, by which time she'd have pulled herself together and written an official letter of resignation which she could slam on his desk with a dramatic flourish and then flounce out.

But here he was. And since there wasn't much she could do about it short of legging it down the street (an option which, right now, carried more than a little appeal), she supposed she might as well face him.

Gathering her courage, she looked up. As she'd sensed, he was watching her, hands shoved deep in his trouser pockets, storm-grey eyes solemn. She opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again as she realised—embarrassingly, ridiculously—that she didn't know what to say.

 _All you have to do is ask him in_ , she told herself severely. Open your mouth, ask him in and then you can discuss this like mature adults. Like professionals, in fact.

... Except now he was looking at her like he had last night, and the memory was doing seriously _unprofessional_ things to her insides.

She inhaled a trembling breath.

"You're supposed to be in Marseille."

"So are you," he said softly, and she cringed with shame. She had made such a mistake leaving him without a word, she could see that now.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have left like that. But you didn't have to come after me. You should have stayed for your meeting. Getting Benoît on side is more important than"—she gestured helplessly between them—"than this."

He stared at her for a moment, flummoxed, and her stomach wrenched as she realised that she had done this; she had hurt him.

But, she reminded herself, he had hurt her too.

"Look, Granger," he said, rubbing his furrowed brow and casting a brief glance to the side. She followed his gaze and saw the curtain ripple in her neighbour's bay window. "Can we please go inside?"

She supposed that was fair. Now she'd mostly gotten over the shock of his appearance on her doorstep, she remembered her good intentions back at Ginny's. Malfoy did deserve the chance to explain himself—and he deserved it away from the herculean hearing of the kind but rather nosy lady next door.

"Fine," she said stiffly, shifting the weight of her holdall in her hand and starting up the path towards him.

He stepped aside to let her to the door, waiting silently as she dug the key from the depths of her bag. The solid warmth of his presence, so close behind her, sent shivers down her treacherous spine—followed soon after by a flush of annoyance that he could still make her feel that way. She was, she decided, sorely tempted to shove him off the step and into the mud.

She didn't though. Simply fitted the key into the lock and let them in.

Still avoiding his gaze, she dropped her holdall on the floor inside the door and slipped off her coat. He took it from her before she had the chance to step away, and the brush of his fingers against her wrist, somehow hot and cold all at once, made her startle like a frightened animal.

His face twisted.

"Hermione," he began, but coward that she was, she fled, hurrying down the hall to the kitchen.

Godric help her. Where had all that great Gryffindor courage gone?

She heard him follow her so busied herself filling up the kettle and pulling out two mugs. Her hands were shaking so hard she spilled coffee grains across the counter.

"Do—" She swallowed. "Do you want a drink?"

"Hermione." His voice was hoarse behind her. "Hermione, please."

She stilled, teaspoon in mid-air. She wished he would stop using her first name. It was only reminding her of the way he'd groaned it last night into her mouth, her skin, her hair...

"What?" she asked rigidly.

"You know I'd never do that to you," he said, and his voice was strained, fervent, as if he truly wanted her to believe him. As if it mattered more than anything else in the world.

Oh, how she wished it did.

"What are you doing here, Malfoy?" she asked, turning to face him. "You're supposed to be in Marseille. Actually"—she glanced at the wall clock—"right now you're supposed to be in a meeting with one of the most difficult men on the planet, who, I'm sure, isn't very happy you cancelled. If you'd have just _waited_ a few hours, you could have caught the portkey."

"Sod the portkey," he said. "I needed to see you."

Hermione rolled her eyes. He sounded like some ridiculous romantic hero.

Although she had to admit it was difficult to be _entirely_ scornful when his voice simmered with such passion, when every muscle in his body seemed pulled taut with tension, when those liquid-silver eyes were so intensely focused on her...

She shook it off with a scoff.

"So you thought you'd just what," she said sarcastically, " _fly_ after me?"

He crossed his arms across his chest.

"You flew away from me."

His dry, rather irreverent response did nothing for her growing ire. She opened her mouth to give him what for, then paused, as this particular piece of news sunk in.

"You took a plane..." she said slowly. "A Muggle plane."

Malfoy hated flying, even first class. When questioned, he insisted it was the cramped conditions, recycled air and fellow passengers he couldn't stand, but he was so determined to attribute it to snobbishness that Hermione secretly suspected he was actually a little afraid. Either way, he refused point-blank to take a plane and instead, wasted an exorbitant amount of money on a private portkey every time he went out of the country.

But not this time.

Hermione gaped as Draco's cheeks went a bit pink. She didn't think she'd ever seen him blush before, and the sight of it—its implications—made her feel rather warm inside.

That was, of course, until he frowned and ruined it all.

"So what?" he said defensively. "I know what you're like. I wasn't going to give you hours to stew over what a selfish bastard you think I am."

 _Of all the cheek..._ She put her hands on her hips.

"You _are_ a selfish bastard," she said fiercely. "A selfish, devious, lying, condescending, underhanded bastard!"

She could have continued—her outburst had barely scratched the surface of the adjectives she could come up with to describe him—but then she realised what she'd said and just who she'd said it to, and she closed her mouth.

The man who was, in fact, still her boss raised his eyebrows at her from across the kitchen.

Now it was her turn to blush, but she drew herself to full height and glared defiantly back. She wasn't going to apologise again. She'd admitted her mistake. She'd said sorry for leaving him. _He_ seemed to think he could tell her he wasn't going to send the letters and be done with it.

Besides, they were way past normal workplace relations. She'd gone to bed with the man, for heaven's sake; he couldn't pull the boss card on her now.

Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on how you looked at it—Malfoy didn't seem the least bit offended by her name-calling. He slanted her a wry smile.

"I guess I deserve that," he said.

Still no apology then. She folded her arms, refusing to be charmed.

"Yes, you do," she said. "All that crap about wanting me to be happy, when all along, you were just playing me."

The smirk slipped abruptly from his face.

"Hermione…"

"Don't you Hermione me!" she snapped. "You kissed me, Draco. You slept with me! And all along you knew—you fucking knew—that you were going to force me to keep working for you. Well, I won't! Even if the Ministry doesn't want me, I won't keep working for you. You can take this as my resignation!"

She stopped, breathing heavily, heart thudding hard in her chest.

"You can take this as my resignation," she repeated more quietly. She was shaking, she realised, her whole body trembling as he simply stared at her, aghast.

Behind her, the kettle clicked as it came to the boil, loud in silent kitchen. Neither acknowledged it.

"Merlin, Hermione," Malfoy said softly after a minute. "That's what you thought I did?"

"Didn't you?" she said tightly.

"No!" He shook his head in disbelief. "I meant every word I said last night. About wanting you to be happy." His eyes burned briefly, a hot flash she felt to her very core. "About wanting _you_."

He crossed the kitchen towards her, but she backed up, feeling the hard edge of the counter hit her spine. He stopped abruptly and a little awkwardly, just a few feet away.

"I never planned to send those letters," he said, voice thick. "And I didn't. I promise you, Granger. I didn't send them. I couldn't do that to you."

She wanted to believe him. She really did. But she couldn't get past the knot in her throat that was telling her there was more to this than he was letting on.

She lifted her chin.

"If you weren't going to send them," she said, "then why did you write them?"

He didn't reply, at least not at first, and she watched as his jaw worked, once, twice, a third time. She straightened up from the counter, feeling her body pulse in a sensation almost akin to adrenaline.

She needed the truth. No matter how much it hurt, she needed the truth.

"Because," he said eventually, and she braced herself. "Because I _am_ a selfish bastard. And I didn't want to lose you."

It wasn't what she'd been expecting. Hermione stood, rooted to the spot, as a confusing burst of pleasure bloomed, somewhere near her heart, at his final words. It was irrational though, completely ridiculous, because he'd told her before that he didn't want her to leave.

Except, this time, it... it felt like he was talking about more than the job.

She hid it with a fierce glare.

"So you _were_ going to send them?"

"No!" he said hastily. "No. I just—" He raked a hand through his mad hair. "I was angry that you wanted to leave. And I was angry with you for springing it on me like that. But most of all I," he hesitated. "Well, I was angry with myself for driving you away."

She stared at him. He looked so very wretched, so very resigned, and a flash of guilt bit at her stomach. Her lips parted to object, but he silenced her with a look.

"Don't lie, Granger. We both know you're leaving partly, if not mostly, because of me."

Well, she supposed it was true. He was, after all, the foremost reason her job had sprawled so voraciously out of its acceptable boundaries.

Still, she doubted he'd made a conscious decision to take over her life. His company was important to him, and she was good at her job. The best, in fact. He'd told her that once before, and she'd never forgotten it.

He could have made her stay. He had wanted to, she knew. And it would have been so easy. After all, if he'd sent the letters when he first wrote them, she'd have probably never known.

But he hadn't gone through with it.

He had let her go.

She didn't know why, but her eyes were suddenly pricking with tears. How she had any left after the flood of this morning was anyone's guess, but she couldn't—wouldn't—cry again. Not in front of Malfoy.

She dropped her head, but evidently not quick enough to hide the sudden surge of feeling welling up inside her. Draco made a rough sound in his throat and closed the space between them in two strides. The next thing she knew, she was blinking up at him through damp, blurry eyes as he held her face in his hands.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," he said hoarsely. "I wanted you so much. And then you told me you were leaving, and it felt like you were leaving me too..." His face twisted with emotion. "I reacted badly and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Hermione drew a ragged breath. Her throat had closed up, and her chest felt so tight, so… full. She had never heard Malfoy speak this way. So desperate. So raw.

And it was all for her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, and Draco made another guttural sound.

"Please don't leave me, Granger," he breathed, touching his forehead to hers.

She choked, feeling a tear leak hot and wet from beneath her lashes. He smoothed it gently away with his thumb. "Please don't cry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

Her hand crept up his chest and found the soft leather of his jacket, just like it had last night. He was so near—she could feel the rise and fall of his chest, the brush of his nose against her cheek, the warmth of his breath on her lips.

It was familiar. He was so familiar.

Behind closed eyelids, she relived their night together. The feel of his body against hers. The sound of his voice in her ear. The taste of his lips as he'd kissed her over and over and over... And it wasn't just the physical side of it, although that had, of course, been wonderful. She had enjoyed his company, the humour between them. She had felt so close to him.

She had told Ginny the truth earlier. She really did like Draco. She really did want more.

She let her eyes flutter open, damp lashes skimming his cheeks.

"I wanted you, too," she murmured.

The words hung, almost tangible, in the tiny space between their lips. She hadn't meant them to sound so revealing, so significant, but they did. Malfoy seemed to hear it too, because his whole body suddenly went very still.

Time seemed suspended for a moment, as if everything in the world had narrowed to this.

Had narrowed to _them_.

"I remember," he said softly. His voice was low and thick, and she took a shuddering breath as it filled her chest like honey.

But then he drew back and waggled his eyebrows. "Quite vividly, in fact."

And just like that, the bubble of intensity around them popped like a balloon. She laughed.

"Do you now?"

"Sure," he said. "Don't tell me you've forgotten that sexy little noise you made when I…"

She thumped the solid wall of his stomach, and he broke off with a huff.

"Wanted," she emphasised, as he caught hold of her waist and pulled her flush against him. " _Past_ tense."

"I can make it present tense," he offered. "If you like." When she rolled her eyes, he reached up to touch her chin. "How…" he hesitated. "How about future?"

She smiled up at him, suddenly shy.

"I'd like that," she said, and he grinned at her, so broadly, so unabashedly, it made her quite flustered. Wanting to hide it, she rearranged her expression into something suitably stern. "I'm still resigning," she warned. "I won't work for you."

He gave her a squeeze.

"Then I accept your resignation. Though it's probably for the best," he added. "Aside from regularly making you want to throw that cat lady mug of yours right at my head"—she opened her mouth to protest, but subsided as he shot her a smirk and she accepted that this was, in fact, true—"I'm not sure it would be entirely appropriate for you to work for someone so desperately in love with…"

He stopped abruptly, shock crossing his face. His hands dropped from her waist, and she swayed, more than the suddenness of his retreat than any actual loss of support, but fortunately caught her balance before she face-planted his chest.

That was, until, his words finally registered in her mind. Then she almost lost it again.

"What did you just say?" she breathed, eyes round.

Draco squinted up at the ceiling.

"I'm pretty sure I just admitted something I shouldn't have."

Too right he had. Her body was somehow simultaneously numb and positively buzzing with utter disbelief and wonderment.

"You're in _love_ with me?" she asked faintly, and the word fizzed on her tongue, sweet and shocking, like sherbet.

Malfoy was still maddeningly nonchalant.

"Apparently so," he said blandly. When she dropped her head, dumbfounded, he lifted a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "Madly," he amended softly.

She looked up to find his eyes crinkled warmly at the corners. "Sorry," he added.

"I –" she swallowed. "I didn't know."

"Neither did I," he admitted. "Not until I woke up this morning and saw you were gone."

She grimaced.

"I'm sorry," she said ruefully, but he shook his head.

"Don't be. I understand why you left." He cupped her cheek, and his expression grew more serious than she'd ever seen it. "I'm sorry I hurt you, Hermione," he said soberly. "I never wanted to. And I'll do everything in my power to make sure you're never hurt again."

She just stared at him, awestruck, until he gave her a half-worried, half-amused sort of glance. "If that's okay with you, of course," he said drily. "You've gone ominously quiet for a woman of so many words."

She shot him a dirty look even as she stepped into him, thrilling at the feel of his body aligning with hers.

"I—well…" She cleared her throat then flashed him a teasing smile. "I quite like you too."

From his miffed expression, it was clear that had not been the answer Draco had been expecting. He opened his mouth to grumble, but she got there first—laughing as she pushed herself up on her toes to kiss him.

Any possible complaint he might have had vanished the moment their lips met. He kissed her back, hard, and her body thrummed with approval as his arms wrapped around her to pull her as close to him as physically possible.

Although it still wasn't close enough for Hermione. She slid her hands up his chest to push her fingers in his thick blond hair.

" _Quite like me too_ ," he growled into her mouth. "Minx."

She laughed again, breaking the kiss to bump her nose against his.

It had been a bit of an understatement, it was true. Of course she loved him! And thinking back, the chances are she'd loved him for a long time. How much had she given up to support him, especially over the last few months? It had been more than a good work ethic, she could admit that now. She had so wanted him to succeed. She had so wanted him to be happy.

And this week in Marseille had only proved it all the more. She'd dropped everything to go with him. She'd kissed him, touched him, gone to bed with him. And she'd been devastated, utterly wrecked, when she thought he'd deceived her.

But now she knew the truth. She knew he was the good man she'd believed him to be. She knew he wanted her to be happy, whether that meant working for him or not. She knew he loved her (Merlin, he loved her!). And it made her so incredibly, unbelievably, wonderfully glad.

But she wasn't about to tell him that... At least not yet. Let the man stew a little while longer.

"What about Gouin?" she asked, drawing back a little in sudden anxiety. It had occurred to her that Draco's entire company was at stake and he had dropped everything, had risked everything he had worked so hard for, to come after _her_.

"I stopped by the office on the way to the airport," he said. "He was there, fortunately. We rearranged for next week."

She blinked at him.

" _Rearranged_?" That didn't sound like the ruthless businessman she knew. "What did you tell him?"

Draco gave her a wry smile.

"The truth," he said. "That I was desperately in love with you and may have ruined everything forever." He tightened his arms around her, as if he still wasn't sure he hadn't. "Turns out the man is a romantic at heart," he added. "Although that Sartre woman wasn't too happy. Tried to convince Benoît to drop us there and then." He looked suddenly shamefaced. "I may have threatened to turn her into a badger."

Hermione shook her head, laughing. They must have thought he was utterly insane.

"Merlin, what am I going to do with you?" she asked, and he slanted her a rakish look.

"I can think of one or two things," he said, then kissed her again, deeply and not a moment too soon. From there it all grew very heated very quickly, and she ended up arched back over the counter, his mouth on her throat, his hand up her blouse.

It was perfect. Delicious in every way.

She was just fumbling for the hem of his shirt, intent on pulling it up over his head and rediscovering the scrumptious ridges of his abs, when he suddenly pulled back.

"Fuck," he exclaimed. "Your letter!"

She blinked up at him, dazed.

"What?"

He'd been pretty far gone with the kiss, as had she. They were both breathing heavily, almost panting.

"Your letter of recommendation." He let go of her to feel frantically about his person. "I need to owl it."

She gaped at him.

"You haven't sent it?"

"No." He was rummaging through his pockets now. Hermione stood, frozen, although the disbelief was now being slowly replaced with panic—and a fair amount of frustration.

"You said consider it done!"

"I know." He shot her an apologetic glance. "I wrote it. The night we got to Marseille." His forehead furrowed as he paused in his search to remember. "Or it might have been the next morning. I worked pretty much all night and lost track of time…"

"Draco!" she said, exasperated.

"Fuck," he said again. "I'm sure I put it…" he paused. "On the bedside table."

She sighed.

"In Marseille?"

He gave her a sheepish look.

"In Marseille."

Hermione glanced at the clock to see it was only just one forty-five—earlier than she had expected. The Ministry, she remembered, wanted her letter by five pm on the dot.

She felt herself relax. They had plenty of time.

"I can write it again," Draco said, searching her expression with worried eyes. "I'll do it now."

He made to step away, but she caught hold of his shirt, bunching it at his stomach.

"Wait," she said, letting her eyes travel over his body with shameless hunger. "We've got three hours. More than that, in fact."

He stared at her for a long moment, before a slow, knowing smile spread across his face.

"I can do a lot in three hours."

She stepped in closer. Her hand slid flat around his middle, beneath his jacket, and she watched with satisfaction as those silver eyes darkened with lust.

"Show me," she said.

So he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's it! Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed this little story. Please do drop me a comment to let me know what you thought.
> 
> If you did enjoy this story, definitely watch this space. I have a fun and fluffy Dramione one shot to post shortly, and also another story of which I am particularly proud—this time featuring Pansy and Charlie as charms mistress and Hogwarts groundskeeper respectively. There'll be snarky banter, plenty of next gen mayhem and a steamy snog in a muddy ditch.


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